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TALES FROM 


LONGFELLOW 


EDITED BY 

MOLLY K. BELLEW 

EDITOR OF 


“Tales From Tennyson” 

Dickens’ Christmas Stories for Children” 

Etc. 


With Illustrations by Ike Morgan 


CHICAGO 

JAMIESON-HIGGINS CO. 



ZZ 253 



A 


1 


THE LIBRARY OF 

CONGRESS, 

Two Cop<m Received 

SEP. 22 1902 

COPVR»OHT ENTRV 

flu tc • X li" '^O 

CLASS OU XXa No. 

COPY 8. 


Copyright, 1902 

BY 

Jamieson-Higgins Co. 


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Press of James McKinney & Co., Chicago. 


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CONTENTS 


* 

if 

Evangeline 
» The Spirit Mother . 

The Leap of Roushan Beg 
The Monk of Casel-Maggiore 
King Robert of Sicily 
Lady Wentworth . 


The Baron of St. Castine . . . . 

The Legend of the Crossbill ... 63 

Pandora 6j 

The Courtship of Miles Standish ... 73 

The Emperor’s Bird’s Nest . . . . 93 

The Wreck of the Hesperus .... 95 

Sandalphon 101 

Maiden and Weathercock .... 105 

The Skeleton in Armor 109 

The Spanish Student ii<3 

Azrael 129 

The Happiest Land 133 

Carmilhan 137 

The Bell of Atri . . , . . .145 

The Birds of Killingworth . . . -149 

The Legend Beautiful 157 

Kambalu 16 1 

The Falcon of Ser Federigo .... 165 

\ 


To my Young Readers. 

Longfellow is the American poet laureate. Not by ap- 
pointment of a king, but by the choice of the millions of 
American sovereigns who have been charmed by his poems. 
He has popularized hundreds of beautiful legends which he 
has told in melodious verse. Some of these are retold in 
the accompanying volume in the hope that the reader will be 
lured to make an acquaintance with his wholesome and ele- 
vating poetry. 


MOLLY K. BELLEW. 















































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EVANGELINE. 































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EVANGELINE. 


IV yT ORE than two hundred years ago there lived in Acadie, as 
Nova Scotia was then called, a beautiful maiden named 
Evangeline. Benedict Belief on taine, Evangeline’s father, was 
the wealthiest farmer in the neighborhood. 

His goodly acres were somewhat apart from 
the little village of Grand-Pre, but near 
enough for Evangeline not to feel lonely. 

The people of Grand-Pre were simple and 
kindly, and dwelt together in the love of 
God and man. They had neither locks to 
their doors nor bars to their windows; 
visitors were always welcome, and all gave 
of their best to whoever migth come. 

The house of Benedict Bellefontaine, 
firmly builded with rafters of oak, was on 
a hill commanding the sea. The barns 
stood toward the north, shielding the house 
from storms. They were bursting with hay 
and corn, and were so numerous as to form 
almost a village by themselves. The horses, 
the cattle, the sheep and the poultry were all fenedict. 

well-fed and well cared for. At Benedict 
Belief ontaine’s there was comfort and plenty. The men and 
the maids never grumbled. All men were equal, ail were 
brothers and sisters. In Acadie the richest man was poor, 
but the poorest lived in abundance. 



8 


EVANGELINE. 


Evangeline was her father's housekeeper; her mother was 
dead. Benedict was seventy years old, but he was hale and 
hearty and managed his prosperous farm himself . His hair was 
as white as snow and his face was as brown as oak leaves. Evan- 
geline's hair was dark brown and her eyes were black. She 
was the loveliest girl in Grand-Pre and many a lad was in love 
with her. 

Among all Evangeline's suitors only one was welcome, and 
he was Gabriel Lajeunesse, son of Basil the blacksmith. Ga- 
briel and Evangeline had grown up together like brother and 
sister. The priest had taught them their letters out of the 
self-same book, and together they had learned their hymns and 
their verses. Together they had watched Basil at his forge 
and with wondering eyes had seen him handle the hoof of a 
horse as easily as a plaything, taking it into his lap and nailing 
on the shoe. Together they had ridden on sledges in winter 
and hunted birds' nests in summer, seeking eagerly that mar- 
vellous stone which the swallow is said to bring from the shore 
of the sea to restore the sight of its fledglings. Lucky is he 
who finds that stone ! 

And now they were man and woman. Benedict and Basil 
were old friends and they desired the marriage of the children. 
They were ready to marry. The young men of the village had 
built them a house and a barn. The barn was filled with hay 
and the house was stored with food enough to last a year. 

One beautiful evening in Indian summer Evangeline and 
Gabriel were betrothed. 

Benedict was sitting in-doors by the wide-mouthed fireplace 
singing fragments of songs such as his fathers before him had 
sung in their orchards in sunny France, and Evangeline was 


EVANGELINE. 


9 


close beside him at her wheel industriously spinning flax for 
her loom. Up-stairs there was a chest filled with strong white 
linen which Evangeline would take to her new home. Every 
thread of it had been spun and woven by the maiden. 

As they sat by the fireside, foot- 
steps were heard, and the wooden 
latch was suddenly lif ted . Bene- 
dict knew by the hob-nailed 
shoes that it was Basil the black- 
smith, and Evangeline knew by 
her beating heart that Gabriel 
was with him. 

“Welcome,” said Benedict the ! 
farmer, “ welcome, Basil, my 
friend! Come and take thy place 
on the settle close by the chimney- 
side. Take thy pipe and the box 
of tobacco from the shelf over- 
head. Never art thou so much 
thyself as when through the 
curling smoke of the pipe or the 
forge thy friendly and jovial basil. 

face gleams as round and red as the harvest moon through 
the mist of the marshes. ’ ' 

“Benedict Bellefontaine, thou art always joking. Thou art 
cheerful even when others are grave and anxious,” answered 
Basil. 

He paused to take the pipe which Evangeline was handing 
him, and lighted it with a coal from the embers. 

“For four days the English ships have ridden at their anchors 
in the Gaspereau's mouth, and their cannon are pointed against 



10 


EVANGELINE. 


us. What they are here for we do not know, but we are all 
commanded to meet in church tomorrow to hear his Majesty's 
will proclaimed as law in the land. Alas ! in the mean time the 
hearts of the people are full of fears of evil," continued the 
blacksmith. 

“ Perhaps some friendly purpose brings these ships to our 
shores,' ' replied the farmer. “ Perhaps the harvests in England 
have been blighted and they have come to buy our grain and 
hay." 

“The people in the village do not think so," said Basil, 
gravely shaking his head. “They remember that the English 
are our enemies. Some have fled already to the forest, and 
lurk on its outskirts waiting anxiously to hear tomorrow's 
news. If the news is not to be bad why have our weapons 
been taken from us? Only the blacksmith's sledge and the 
scythes of the mowers have been left.' ' 

“We are safer unarmed," answered the cheerful farmer who 
as usual made the best of everything “ V 7 hat can harm us here 
in the midst of our flocks and our corn-fields? Fear no evil, 
my friend, and, above all, may no shadow fall on, this house 
and hearth to-night. It is the night of the contract. Rene 
Leblanc will be here presently with his papers and inkhorn. 
Shall we not be glad and rejoice in the happiness of our chil- 
dren?" 

Evangeline and her lover were standing by the window. They 
heard the words of the farmer and the maiden blushed. Hardly 
had he spoken when the worthy notary entered the room. 

Rene Leblanc was bent with age. His hair was yellow, his 
forehead was high, and he looked very wise, with his great 
spectacles sitting astride on his nose. He was the father of 
twenty children, and more than a hundred grandchildren rode 

i 


EVANGELINE. 


11 


on his knee. All children loved him for he could tell them 
wonderful fairy tales and strange stories of the forest. He 
told them of the goblins that came at night to water the horses, 
of how the oxen talked in their stalls on Christmas Eve, of how 
a spider shut up in a nut shell could cure the fever, and of the 
marvellous powers possessed by horseshoes and four-leaved 
clover. He knew more strange things than twenty other men. 

As soon as Basil saw the notary he asked him about the 
English ships. 

“ Father Leblanc, thou hast heard the talk of the village. 
Perhaps, thou canst tell us something about the ships and their 
errand.” 

“ I have heard enough talk, ” answered the notary, but I am 
none the wiser. Yet I am not one of those who think that the 
ships are here to do us evil. We are at peace and, why then, 
should they harm us?” 

“Must we in all things look for the how and the why and 
wherefore?” shouted the hasty and somewhat excitable black- 
smith. “Injustice is often done and might is the right of the 
strongest. ” 

“Man is unjust,” replied the notary, “but God is just, and 
finally justice triumphs. I remember a story that has often 
consoled me when things have seemed to be going wrong. 

“ Once in an ancient city, whose name I have forgotten, there 
stood high on a marble column, in the public square, a brazen 
statue of Justice holding her scales in her left hand and a sword 
in her right. This meant that justice reigned over the land and 
in the hearts and the homes of the people. Yet in the course of 
time the laws of the land were corrupted and might took the 
place of right, the weak were oppressed, and the mighty ruled 
with a rod of iron. By and by, birds built their nests in the 


12 


EVANGELINE. 


scales of Justice; they were not afraid of the sword that flashed 
in the sunshine above them. 

“It happened that in the palace of a wealthy nobleman a 
necklace of pearls disappeared. Suspicion fell on a poor orphan 
girl who was arrested and sentenced to be hanged right at the 
foot of the statue of Justice. 

“The girl was put to death, but as her innocent spirit as- 
cended to heaven a great storm arose and lightning struck the 
statue, angrily hurling the scales from the left hand of the figure 
of Justice. They fell to the pavement with a clatter and in one 
of the shattered nests was found the pearl necklace. It had 
been stolen by a magpie who had cunningly woven the string 
of pearls into the clay wall of her babies’ cradle. So the poor 
girl was proven innocent and the people of that city were 
taught to be more careful of justice.” 

This story silenced the blacksmith but did not drive away his 
forebodings of evil. Evangeline lighted the brazen lamp on the 
table and filled the great pewter tankard with home-brewed nut 
brown ale. The notary drew from his pocket his papers and 
his inkhorn and began to write the contract of marriage. In 
spite of his age his hand was steady. He set down the names 
and the ages of the parties and the amount of Evangeline’s 
dowry in flocks of sheep and in cattle. All was done in accord- 
ance with the law and the paper was signed and sealed. Bene- 
dict took from his leathern pouch three times the notary’s fee 
in solid pieces of silver. The old man arose and blessed the 
bride and the bridegroom, and then lifted aloft the tankard of 
ale and drank to their health. Then wiping the foam from his 
lip, he bowed solemnly and went away. 

The others sat quietly by the fire-side until Evangeline 
brought the draught-board to her father and Basil and arranged 


EVANGELINE. 


13 


the pieces for them. They were soon deep in the game while 
Evangeline and her lover sat apart in the embrasure of a win- 
dow and whispered together as they watched the moon rise 
over the sea. Their hearts were full of happiness as they looked 
into the future, believing that they would be together. 

At nine o’clock the guests rose to depart but Gabriel lingered 
on the door step with many farewell words and sweet good- 
nights. When he was gone Evangeline carefully covered the 
fire and noiselessly followed her father up-stairs. Out in the 
orchard Gabriel waited and watched for the gleam of her lamp 
and her shadow as she moved about behind her snowy cur- 
tains. She did not know that he was so near, yet her thoughts 
were of him. 

The next day the betrothal feast was held in Benedict’s house 
and the orchard. There were good Benedict and sturdy Basil 
the blacksmith and there were the priest and the notary. Beau- 
tiful Evangeline welcomed the guests with a smiling face and 
words of gladness. Then Michael the fiddler took aseat under 
the trees and he sang and played for the company to dance, 
sometimes beating time to the music with his wooden shoes. 

Merrily, merrily whirled the dancers, old and young to- 
gether, and the children among them. Fairest of all the 
maidens was Evangeline, and Gabriel was the noblest of all 
the youths. 

So the morning passed away. A loud summons sounded 
from the church tower and from the drums of the soldiers. 
The men thronged to the church leaving the women outside 
in the church yard. 

The church doors were closed, and the crowd silently awaited 
the will of the soldiers. Then the commander arose and spoke 
from the steps of the altar 


14 


EVANGELINE. 


How dreadful were the words spoken from that holy placa ! 
The lands and dwellings and the cattle of all kinds, of the peo- 
ple were to be given up to the King of England whom they 
had to obey for he had conquered the French. They were 
to be driven from their homes and Englishmen were to be 
allowed to take possession of Acadie. 

The commander declared the men prisoners, but over- 
come with sorrow and anger, they rushed to the door- way. 
Basil, the hot-headed blacksmith cried out, “Down with the 
tyrants of England/’ but a soldier struck him on the mouth 
and dragged him down to the pavement. 

Then Father Felician, the priest, spoke to his people, and 
tried to quiet them. His words were few, but they sank 
deep in the hearts of his flock. 

“ 0 Father forgive them,” they cried, as the crucified Christ 
had cried centuries before them. 

The evening service followed and the people fell on their 
knees and were comforted. 

Evangeline waited for her father at his door. She had set 
the table and his supper was ready for him. On the white 
cloth were the wheaten bread, the fragrant honey, the tankard 
of ale, and fresh cheese just brought from the dairy, but 
Benedict did not come. At last the girl went back to the 
church and called aloud the names of her father and Gabriel. 
There was no answer. Back to the empty house she went, 
feeling desolate. It began to rain; then the lightning flashed 
and it thundered but Evangeline was not frightened for she 
remembered that God was in heaven and that he governs the 
world that he created. She thought of the story that she had 
heard the night before of the justice of heaven and, trusting 
in God, she went to bed and slept peacefully until morning. 


EVANGELINE. 


15 


The men were kept prisoners in the church for four days and 
nights. On the fifth day the women and the children were 
bidden to take their household goods to the seashore and there 
they were joined by the long-imprisoned but patient Acadian 
farmers. 

When Evangeline saw Gabriel she ran to him and whispered, 
“ Gabriel, be of good cheer, for if we love each other nothing 
can harm us, whatever mischances may happen.” 

Then she saw her father. He was sadly changed; the fire 
was gone from his eyes and his footstep was heavy and slow. 
With a full heart she embraced him, feeling that words of com- 
fort would do no good. 

The Acadians were hurried on board the ships and in the 
confusion families were separated. Mothers were torn from 
their children and wives from their husbands. Basil was put 
on one ship and Gabriel on another, while Evangeline stood 
on the shore with her father. When night came not half the 
work of embarking was done. The people on shore camped 
on the beach in the midst of their household goods and their 
wagons. None could escape, for the soldiers were watching them. 

The priest moved about in the moonlight trying to comfort 
the people. He laid his hand on Evangeline’s head and blessed 
her. Suddenly columns of shining smoke arose and flashes 
of flame were seen in the direction of Grand-Pre. The village 
was on fire. The people felt that they could never return 
to their homes and their hearts were swelled with anguish. 
Evangeline and the priest turned to Benedict. He was motion- 
less, his soul had gone to heaven. 

There on the beach, with the light of the burning village for 
a torch they buried the farmer of Grand-Pre and the priest re- 
peated the burial service to the accompaniment of the roaring sea. 


16 


EVANGELINE. 


In the morning the work of embarking was finished and 
toward night the ships sailed out of the harbor leaving the 
dead on the shore and the village in ruins. 


. The Acadians were 
scattered all over the 
land from north to 
south and from the 
bleak shores of the ocean 
even to the banks of 
the Mississippi River. 
Evangeline wandered 
from place to place 



GABRIEL, MY BELOVED! 


looking for Gabriel Lajeunesse and Gabriel sought Evan- 
geline as earnestly. Sometimes they heard of one another 
but through long years they never met. 

Evangeline was growing old and her hair showed faint 
streaks of gray when at last she made her home in Phila- 
delphia. She became a Sister of Mercy and by day and by 
night ministered to the sick and the dying. 

A pestilence fell on the city, carrying away rich and poor 
alike. Evangeline lovingly tended the very poorest, and each 
day she went to the almshouse on her errand of mercy. 

One morning she came to a pallet on which lay an old man, 
thin and gray, as she looked at him his face seemed to assume 
the form of earlier manhood. With a cry she fell on her knees. 

‘ ‘Gabriel, my beloved!” 

The old man heard the voice and it carried him back to the home 
of his childhood, to happiness and Evangeline. He opened his 
eyes. Evangeline was kneeling beside him. At last they 
were together. 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


OVEND Dyring, the Norseman, married a beautiful maiden. 

^ She was as fair as a lily and as good as she was fair. Her 
eyes were as blue as the sea and her hair as golden as summer 
sunshine and her soul was as pure as snow. 

Svend Dyring and his lovely young wife lived 
together happily for seven years and during 
that time six children were born to them. 

Then the mother died, and the little ones had 
no one to nurse them and care for them as she 
had done, and their father, also, was lonely. 

Svend Dyring married again, but his new 
wife was not like the one who had died. She 
was proud, and thought much more of herself 
than of others. When Svend Dyring brought 
her home and they drove into the courtyard 
of his great castle there stood the six children 
in a row to greet her. The youngest one, who 
was too small and too young to stand by him- 
self, was in his eldest sister’s arms. 

The row of forlorn children, who were weep- 
ing sorrowfully, angered the lady, and she or- 

° J SIX CRY-BABIES, SHE SAID. 

dered them away. 

' “ Six cry-babies,’ ’ she said, “let them go to the servants. I 
do not want them around.’ ’ 

Perhaps the servants did not want them around either, for 
the little things were not properly cared for at all. The new 

17 



18 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


mother neglected to give them bread and milk, and they were 
often hungry. They had always had plenty to eat and to drink 
of just the kind of food that they needed* but now they had to 
be content with scraps from their father’s table, when they 
got any, and the rich food made them sick. 

Each child had a pretty, warm quilt for its little bed. Their 
mother had made these quilts with great pains, covering them 
with soft and fine blue woolen stuff which she had woven and 
colored herself, and wadding them with eider down. Eider 
down comes from the breast of the eider duck which nests on 
steep cliffs in the Norse land. It is impossible to climb these 
cliffs and the hunter hangs by ropes from the top of the rocks 
while the boiling sea rages below. He takes the down from 
the nests of the birds which have plucked it from their breasts 
to keep their babies warm. Twice he robs each nest, but 
the third time he leaves them alone for the ducks have no more 
down to spare. The birds and their nests are protected by 
law and eider down is very costly; it is the most expensive 
material with which quilts can be filled, and is really worth 
more than its weight in gold. 

When the children’s mother was dying she thought with 
pleasure of the warm quilts that she had made her little ones, 
and was thankful that they would be comfortable on cold 
nights. It was just as though each child had a soft nest to lie 
in, she thought, for they would be very cosy wrapped in their 
pretty blue quilts. 

But the new mother considered the eider down quilts far too 
precious for use and she took them away from the chilren and 
locked them up in a chest. 

“ Straw is good enough for their beds,” she told their father. 
4 ‘Think how many boys and girls lie on straw. How can you 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 19 

make strong men and women of them if you bring them up so 
daintily? ” 

The children shivered without their down quilts, the straw 
hurt their soft flesh, and it felt cold instead of warm, for they 
were not used to it, although in those days straw was often used 
by poor people for bed and covering, too. 

Ever since the oldest child was born there had always been 
a great wax candle in the room in which the children slept, and 
they had never been alone in the dark. The new mother 
thought it extravagant and foolish to burn a candle all night, 
so she took it away. 

“They will never be brave as your children should be,” she 
said to their father, “if they are allowed to have a light in 
their room. Besides, what good can a light do them at night 
when they ought to be asleep.” 

But the children did not sleep. They were hungry and cold 
and lonely and frightened, and they cried and cried. The 
eldest girl, who was only six years old, after all, tried to hush 
the babies, but she was cold and hungry herself. 

Away off in another part of the castle, with thick walls be- 
tween, the new mother did not hear the cries; she was asleep 
and dreaming of the great lady that she would be now that she 
was married to Svend Dyring. Their father did not hear them ; 
he was asleep, also, dreaming of war and the hunt. 

But some one heard. Up in heaven their mother knew that 
her babies were crying, and she went to the Heavenly Father 
who always listens to children. She stood before the Lord of 
all and asked to be allowed to go to her little ones. She begged 
that she might go to comfort them for they were very miser- 
able. They were sobbing and crying, “0, mother, mother 


20 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


come back!” and the eldest daughter was on her knees asking 
God to send her to them. 

The Heavenly Father had pity on the children and He let 
their mother go. 

Down from heaven she came and went through the village, 
passing through locked gates and stone walls as easily as 
though they had not been there. The watch dogs saw her as 
she passed and howled, but she was thinking only of her chil- 
dren and did not heed them. 

When she came to the castle door, there stood her eldest 
daughter looking out into the moonlight as though she had 
known that she was on her way to them. Indeed, the child 
had felt sure that God would send her mother, for they needed 
her so much. 

Straight to the children’s room went the mother, followed by 
the glad little girl. The babies were all wide awake and crying 
as though their hearts would break. The sight of their mother 
quieted them. She bent over them tenderly, soothing each 
one. She cuddled and warmed their cold little bodies, and 
gave them food and drink ; then she went to the great chest and 
got out the warm, blue quilts and tucked each child snugly in 
bed. 0, how happy and comfortable they were! 

The mother then turned to her eldest daughter. She combed* 
and brushed her long, light hair, which had been sadly neg- 
lected, and put it in two neat braids. Her nest was all ready 
for her, too, but she was not allowed to get into it yet. 

“Go and tell your father to come to me,” said the mother. 

The child went, and Svend Dyring came trembling and 
afraid. 

“ Is it thus that you treat my children now that I am gone? ” 
demanded the mother. “ I left behind me plenty for them to 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


21 



THE SIGHT OF THEIR MOTHER QUIETED THEM. 



22 


THE SPIRIT MOTHER. 


eat, but I found them crying with hunger; I gave each one a 
warm, blue quilt that I made with my own hands, but I found 
my babies lying on rough straw and with only straw to cover 
them ; I left great wax candles for their room, such as they have 
always been used to, but I found no candle there, and the chil- 
dren were crying in the dark. When you married me I brought 
you money in plenty, money which now belongs to the children 
as well as to you. They have been used to comfort and plenty 
and comfort and plenty they shall have. Unless my children 
are treated well something dreadful will happen to you. I 
must go now, for the cock is crowing to welcome the dawn. I 
leave my children to you. Beware how you treat them. If I 
come again I go not hence alone.” 

The mother disappeared ; the children were sleeping sweetly 
under their soft quilts; Svend Dyring looked at them and 
trembled. 

After that, the little ones had all the bread and milk that 
they could eat; they had warm beds and a light in their room. 
Their new mother looked after them as though they had been 
her own, and they learned to love her. 

On moonlight nights when the dogs howled Svend Dyring 
trembled again and was afraid, but the spirit mother was happy 
in heaven and did not come back to earth. Her little boys 
grew to be strong and tall men, who won fame by their brave 
deeds, and the little girls grew and became as beautiful and as 
good as their mother. 


THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG. 



'HE bandit chief, Roushan Beg, called Kurroglou, had seven 


hundred and eighty men-at-arms to do his bidding. He and 
they, lived by pillage. Sallying forth from their strong fortress 
they robbed caravans and towns or took prisoners whom they 
held for ransom. They easily secured all they wanted, whether 
money, food or wine, and the whole land was full of tales of 
their bold and clever deeds. 

Roushan Beg was not dependent on his men, brave as they 
were. Mounted on his favorite steed he often rode out alone. 
Kyrat was a chestnut horse with four snow-white feet, and he 
was as fleet as the wind. No other steed could overtake him 
w T hen he did his best. Kurroglou loved Kyrat more than he 
loved gold — more than he loved his wife or his children — more 
than anything, except his own life, and that life Kyrat had 
saved many times. 

One day the bandit chief was riding far from home, doubtful 
as to his whereabouts, when he was perceived by the Arab, Rey- 
han, who gave chase with one hundred men. Kyrat easily 
kept ahead of the pursuers, but — lo! — the pathway led to a 
precipice overhanging a deep chasm whose sides yawned thirty 
feet apart. There was no way to ride further unless one could 
ride on air! 

Gently Roushan Beg leaned forward and caressed Kyrat ’s 
forehead, neck and breast, kissing his eyes and praising him, 
while he pleaded with him to save his master’s life. 


23 



O LOVE OF MINE LEAP AND RESCUE KURROGLOU. 





THE LEAP OF ROUSHAN BEG 


25 


“ 0, my Kyrat, 0, my beautiful steed, carry me through this 
peril; thou shalt have housings of satin and shoes of gold, if 
thou wilt but do it. 

‘‘Thou art as lovely as any woman, 0 Kyrat 1 Thy hair 
is like the finest silk thread ; thy skin is like satin, thy hoofs 
shine like polished ivory, thy eyes are tender and true. 0, 
Kyrat, 0 love of mine, leap and rescue Kurroglou!” 

Kyrat heard and understood; he gathered together his four 
white feet and prepared for the mighty leap. He measured 
with his eye the dreadful space and sprang across to the other 
side. Roushan Beg did not tremble. He was sure of his steed ; 
neither his hand nor his bridle shook as he landed on the far 
side of the great abyss; nor did he look around at his pursuers. 
There was no need ; not another horse and rider could do what 
had just been accomplished by Kyrat and Kurroglou. 

The pair vanished from the sight of Reyhan the Arab, Kyrat 
galloping unconcernedly and Roushan Beg sitting easily in 
the saddle. 

The Arab had held his breath during the wonderful leap. 
Now he cried aloud, “ Surely, in all the land there does not live 
so brave a man as this robber, Kurroglou! ” 


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THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


O NE hot summer afternoon, several hundred years ago, two 
monks were walking wearily along the sunny road that 
led to their convent. They carried heavy sacks of food which, 
according to the custom of the 
Franciscan friars, to which order 
they belonged, they had begged 
for themselves and their brethren. 

Their clothing was torn and dusty 
and they bent beneath their loads. 

Never were two monks more 
unlike. 

Brother Anthony was tall and 
thin and had pale cheeks caused 
by much fasting and mid-night 
prayer. He was silent and grave 
and gray and his body was worn 
by the severity of his life. He 
was meek and yielding and it was 
his nature to obey. 

Brother Timothy was large and 
round and rosy, with broad 
shoulders and an enormous waist. 

He was not given to fasting, but loved good things to eat, 
and paid little attention to his prayer book, for he had never 
learned to read. He was fond of a joke and was often in dis- 
grace for being noisy. 



BROTHER ANTHONY AND BROTHER 
TIMOTHY. 


27 




28 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


Perhaps the head of the convent had sent Brother Anthony 
and Brother Timothy out together with the thought that 
Brother Anthony’s quiet behavior would serve as a check on 
Brother Timothy. Vain hope ! 

As they passed the outskirts of a wood the tired monks saw 
a donkey tethered to a tree. His owner, Farmer Gilbert, had 
gone deep into the wood to search for sticks for his fire, leaving 
the patient beast to rest in the shade. 

As soon as Brother Timothy saw the donkey he cried out 
with delight : 

“Good luck, Providence has put this animal here to help 
us. We will put our sacks on the Creature’s back. ’ ’ 

Meek Brother Anthony allowed Brother Timothy to take 
his sack and put it with his own on the donkey. Suddenly 
called from his holy thoughts by Brother Timothy’s exclama- 
tion he was quite ready to believe that Heaven had sent the 
donkey to them. 

Brother Timothy leisurely untied the donkey’s halter, and 
taking it from the neck of the beast, put it around his own 
and fastened himself to the tree, for all the world as though 
he were the donkey. 

“Away!” he cried to Brother Anthony, laughing hugely 
at his joke. “Away with you, and drive the donkey before 
you with your staff. Go to the convent, and when you get there, 
say that you left me at a farm half tired and half ill of a fever, 
and that the farmer lent you this donkey to carry our heavy 
sacks which are full of good things. I shall be back after 
a day and a night. Never fear. ’ ’ 

Obedient Brother Anthony drove the donkey before him. 
He had scarcely heard Brother Timothy’s speech for he was 
deep in prayer. He soon arrived at the convent with the 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


29 


donkey and the sacks of food, but was unable to give any 
explanation of the absence of Brother Timothy about whom 
the monks did not concern themselves much. 

Farmer Gilbert, having gathered his load of sticks, came 
back to the' spot where he had left his donkey. In its place 
there stood a fat monk hitched to the self-same tree with the 
self-same halter about his neck. 

The farmer rubbed his eyes and stared. He turned away 
and then looked again. The monk was still there. Trembling 
with fright Gilbert crossed himself vigorously for he thought 
that witch-craft had wrought the change. He did not dare 
to go near to Father Timothy. 

The monk spoke first. He could hardly keep from laughing. 

“ Do not be so surprised to find me here where you left your 
donkey / 1 he said. Set me free, and I will tell you the 
piteous story of Brother Timothy of Casel-Maggiore.” 

But Farmer Gilbert did not move. He wanted things ex- 
plained before he untied the rope. 

“I am a sinful man,” said Brother Timothy/'al though, 
as you see, I wear the dress of one devoted to the highest 
things. You never owned a donkey, but you owned me 
changed from my own natural shape into that of a beast — all 
for the dreadful sin of gluttony. I could not get rid of my 
sin myself, so I had to do penance and, as a donkey, lived on 
grass and was beaten often and worked hard, as you yourself 
know.” # 

The simple Gilbert, hearing these words, was conscience- 
stricken, and fell on his knees before the monk. 

“ Think of the shame and the suffering that I have gone 
through,” continued Timothy. Think of the miserable life 
that I have led. I have been housed in a windy shed, fed 


30 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


grudgingly, beaten many times a day, and made to do your 
work. My bed has been musty straw, and my food nothing 
that a man likes. Ah, well! My penance is over now and I 
am permitted to be a man again/ ’ 

The kneeling farmer begged the monk’s pardon very humbly 
and implored him to come home with him as his guest. 

Brother Timothy graciously bade the poor man arise and 
willingly accompanied him to his cottage. In the excitement 
of the moment Gilbert almost forgot that he had lost his donkey 
in finding the monk, and felt honored by the monk’s presence. 

Farmer Gilbert’s cottage stood amid olive trees on a hill-side, 
With its white-washed walls and its surrounding shade it looked 
inviting and as though one might live in it comfortably and 
contentedly as, indeed, did Gilbert and his family. 

The children came running to meet their father, but shrank 
back a little at the sight of the stranger. Dame Cicely and 
Gilbert ’s aged father greeted the monk reverently. When Gil- 
bert told these kindly people the story of the donkey and the 
monk their eyes filled with wonder and awe. No one thought of 
doubting it, for that was the age of simple faith, and all began 
to lament the hardships that Brother Timothy had endured while 
he was their donkey. 

Wishing to make such amends as were in her power Dame 
Cicely set about getting a grand repast to satisfy the hunger of 
the friar, after his long fast from good things. Her only two 
chickens were killed and served with a fresh green salad and 
two flasks of country wine. With good bread what more could 
even Brother Timothy wish? 

How he did eat! And how he drank the country wine ! 

As meat and drink disappeared he talked and laughed and 
his white teeth flashed through his russet beard. The children 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


31 


gazed at him with wonder but, by and by, they began to nod 
for it was late for them to be up. Then Dame Cicely sent them 
off to bed. 

The monk’s laughing and talking grew louder and he asked 
for another flask of wine. Gilbert thought that he had had too 
much already and his noisy be- 
havior displeased the farmer. 

“Good father,” he said, “You 
are showing us that you needed 
your penance for you are indulging 
yourself too much, in spite of the 
lesson you have had. You had 
better be careful or you will relapse 
into your deadly sin. Tomorrow 
morning go back to your convent 
and, when you get there, fast and 
pray and scourge yourself, or you 
may become a donkey again and 
be whipped by other hands. ” 

At this the monk had the grace 
to blush, and he looked around 
to see who had heard Gilbert’s 
words. The old man had followed 
the children but Dame Cicely was there. Soon every one in 
the cottage was asleep. 

The next morning the monk was up before the sun and, hav- 
ing breakfasted, made haste to go. The morning air was fresh 
and sweet; and as the sun rose above the mountains the birds 
sang joyously to greet it. All the world was beautiful but 
Brother Timothy did not think of that. He saw smoke ascend- 



32 


THE MONK OF C ASEL-M AGGIORE . 


ing from the convent chimneys and quickened his steps to be 
in time for a second breakfast. 

When he entered the court-yard there stood Farmer Gilbert’s 
donkey twirling its ears about and waiting just as patiently as it 
had waited in the wood, the day before, while its master was 
gathering sticks for his fire. 

Now was the time for Brother Timothy to have sent the beast 
back to kind Farmer Gilbert. But he was afraid of getting into 
trouble if he confessed the truth about the donkey. So he told 
the Prior that the owner* of the beast, being wealthy and 
generous, had given it to the brotherhood in order to lessen the 
monks’ labor of carrying sacks. 

The Prior did not approve of employing beasts of burden for 
the friars whose duty it was to work hard. Besides it would 
cost a good deal to feed the donkey. So it was sent off to the 
neighborhood fair to be sold for the benefit of the order. 

Soon after, it happened that Farmer Gilbert went to the Fair 
to buy a donkey to take the place of the one that he had lost 
so miraculously. As he was strolling about the grounds look- 
ing at the animals offered for sale he heard a familiar bray. He 
turned and saw his own donkey. Much surprised he went to it 
and examined it carefully. There was no doubt about it. It 
was Brother Timothy. 

He threw his arms around its neck and whispered in its ear. 

“ Alack a day, good father! You have been changed back in 
spite of my warning. 0, why didn’t you fast &nd pray as I ad- 
vised you to?” 

The donkey, feeling Gibert’s breath in its ear shook its head, 
as though it were not pleased by what he said and wished to 
contradict him. 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 33 

This excited Gilbert. He let go of the beast and spoke out 
loud. 

“I know you well,” he cried. “You need not shake your 
head at me and deny it. You are the same Franciscan friar 
who was at my house. Why, your hair is russet red, and you 
ate and drank too much. Your name is Timothy. ” 

The donkey shook its head again as though it were obstinate 
and Gilbert grew vexed and raised his voice angrily. 

A crowd gathered to listen to the queer dialogue between a 
donkey and a man. The farmer tried to explain matters but 
the bystanders jeered and laughed. 

Gilbert was sore perplexed. He did not know what to do. 

“ If this be Brother Timothy, ” advised one, kinder than the 
rest or more jocular, “buy him again and feed him on the 
the tenderest grass. You can’t do too much for a monk 
so tried as to be twice changed into a donkey. ” 

So simple Gilbert bought the beast and, untying his halter, 
led him homeward. As he went along he lectured the donkey 
on the necessity of good behavior and a contented mind. 

The children saw the pair coming and ran to greet them, 
shouting with delight at having their donkey back again. 
They praised it and hugged it and wove garlands to hang about 
its neck. 

“0, Brother Timothy,” cried the happy youngsters, “you 
have come back to us! We thought you were dead and we 
should never see you any more,” and they danced around their 
pet and kissed the white place on its forehead. 

Thenceforward to that family the donkey was known as 
Brother Timothy, and for some time he led a life of luxury. 
He was petted and stuffed with corn and hay until he grew lazy 


THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 



AS HE WENT ALONG HE LECTURED THE DONKEY. 




THE MONK OF CASEL-MAGGIORE. 


35 


and vicious from over-feeding and lack of exercise. He broke 
his halters and ran away, he kicked and flung his heels even at 
the children and worst of all, he broke from his shed one night 
and ruined the cabbage bed. 

This last was too much for poor Gilbert. 

“You misunderstand kindness and abuse it,” he said to the 
donkey, whom he thought could appreciate all that he said. 
‘ ‘ A whipping may do you good, and a whipping you shall have. 

The children cried, but Brother Timothy got the whipping. 
After that, he had to work hard. Gilbert was no longer easy 
on him for he thought it was his duty to help Heaven to punish 
Brother Timothy. 

After many weeks of labor the donkey died. Dame Cicely 
bewailed his loss, the children wept, and the grandfather shook 
his head solemnly. Gilbert made the most of his good points 
in talking about him. 

“Heaven forgive Brother Timothy,” he said, over and over 
again, “ and keep us from the sin of gluttony.” 

As for the real Brother Timothy— he grew more and more 
lazy and noisy and greedy until the Prior could stand his mis- 
behavior no longer. From that time on he had to fast as much 
as Brother Anthony. Brother Anthony chose to fast, but 
Brother Timothy was made to do so. 

Farmer Gilbert met Brother Timothy on the road one] day, 
but he had grown so thin that he did not know him. He 
never found out that his donkey had not been the monk. 



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KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


K ING Robert of Sicily was at church one evening attended as 
usual by a great train of gallant knights and trusty squires 
and ladies of the court. As he sat proudly in his high place, 
dressed in rich and beautiful robes, he thought not so much 
of the service as of his own importance and state. Not only 
was he a king himself, but he was brother to the Pope and to 
Valmond, Emperor of Germany. 

Presently his attention was attracted by the chant that the 
priests were singing. It was the Magnificat. Over and over 
again they repeated the words, 

“ Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.” 

King Robert had heard the chant many times before, but 
now he found himself wondering what this particular .phrase 
meant. A learned man was at his side, and the king spoke to 
him. 

“What do those words mean?” he asked. 

“He has put down the mighty from their seat, 

And has exalted them of low degree,” 
replied the scholar. 

“ It is well that such words are sung in Latin and only by the 
priests,” muttered King Robert, scornfully. “Be it known 
to both priests and people that there is no power that can push 
me from my throne.” 

He leaned back in his seat yawning and soon fell asleep, 
lulled by the monotonous chant. 

37 


38 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


Now, it was St. John’s eve and on that day strange and un- 
looked for things happen. When King Robert awoke from his 
nap it was night and he was alone in the church. The service 
was over and the priests and everyone else except himself had 
gone. The great building was dark, but for the little lamps 
which were kept burning constantly before the images of the 
saints. 

King Robert started from his seat and looked around in 
amazement. All was still. He groped his way down the long 
aisle to the door; he took hold of the handle and tried to turn 
it; the door was locked. He called and listened for an answer 
but none came. He knocked and he shouted, but to no pur- 
pose. Growing angrier every minute, he cried out threats and 
complaints and the sound of his own voice came back to him 
echoing from the roofs and the walls. It was as though he 
were being mocked by unseen hearers. 

After what seemed a long time^ the knocking and the shout- 
ing brought the sexton to the church door. He came with 
his lantern suspecting that thieves were in the church. 

“ Who is there,?” he called. 

“Open the door at once,” commanded the king, who was 
almost beside himself with rage. “ It is I, the king.” 

The sexton trembled and waited to hear more before putting 
the great key in the lock. He thought that there must be a 
madman within. 

“Art thou afraid?” cried the king. 

“It is a drunken vagabond,” muttered the old man and, 
turning the key, he flung the door wide open. 

A figure leaped past him in the darkness. It was King 
Robert, but the sexton did not dream of that for the figure was 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


39 


half-naked and forlorn. The king’s gorgeous robes had dis- 
appeared, his hat and his cloak were gone and he did not look 
like himself at all. Without a word or a look at the sexton he 
sped down the street. 



A FIGURE LEAPED PAST HIM IN THE DARKNESS. 


Bare-headed and breathless and splashed with mud, Robert 
of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane and of Valmond, Emperor 
of Germany, reached his palace gate — the gate that he had 
entered in triumph so many times. 

He thundered for admittance, boiling with rage and half- 
mad with an overpowering sense of his wrongs. Through 
the gate he rushed and across the court-yard, thrusting aside 
every one who stood in his way, upsetting pages, and over- 
whelming guards. Past them all and up the broad stairway 


40 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


he hurried and then sped through the long halls. He paid no 
attention to the calls and the cries which pursued him, and did 
not pause until he reached the banquet room. 

There on a dais sat another king wearing Robert’s robes, his 
crown and his signet-ring. His features were like Robert’s 
and so was his form, but he possessed a majesty and an ex- 
alted look which the real king lacked. The room, always 
well lighted, shone with an unusual brilliancy and the at- 
mosphere was full of fragrance. 

An angel had taken the place of the King, and although 
no one was conscious of the change every one present vaguely 
felt the improvement. 

Robert stood speechless before the miracle. Then his sur- 
prise gave way to anger at seeing another in his place. The 
Angel spoke first. 

“Who art thou, and why comest thou here?” he asked 
benignly, meeting Robert’s threatening look with one of 
almost divine compassion. 

“Iam the king,’ ’ answered'Robert indignantly, “ and I have 
come to claim my throne from the imposter who is on it.’ ’ 

As he stood before the angel, Robert did not look at all 
royal, and his clothing made such a difference in his appear- 
ance that the courtiers did not notice even a resemblance to 
their King, and took him for a stranger. At his bold words 
they sprang angrily from their seats and drew their swords 
to put him to death for his insolence. 

The angel was unmoved. He signed to the courtiers to 
sheath the weapons that they had drawn in his defense. 

“No, thou art not the King,’ ’ he said to Robert. “Thou art 
the King’s jester and henceforth thou shalt wear bells and 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY, 


41 



THOU ART THE KING’S JESTER. 



42 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


cap and a scalloped cape and lead a monkey about by a string. 
Thou shalt obey my servants and wait on my men/ ’ 

In those days every king kept a jester or a fool whose duty 
it was to amuse his master and the court. Often the jester 
was not quite right in his mind and for that reason said odd 
things which would not have occured to entirely sane people, 
and he was allowed to make speeches which would have been 
rebuked if they had come from others. Thus the angel treated 
Robert’s claim as a jest. 

The attendants were delighted with the new joke. Paying 
no attention except laughter to Robert’s cries and explana- 
tions, they thrust him from the banquet hall and down the 
stairs. A crowd of pages ran before him throwing the doors 
wide open with mock ceremony, while the boisterous men-at- 
arms shouted “ Long live the King,’ ’ with noisy glee. 

How he got through the evening King Robert hardly knew. 
He was so tired when he was shown at last to his comfortless 
straw bed that he slept better than he had done many a night 
on his royal couch. 

The next morning he awoke with the day. 

“ What a curious dream I have had,’ ’ he exclaimed sleepily. 

But it was no dream. Straw rustled as he turned his head 
and by his side were the cap and bells which he was to put on. 
His room was bare, its walls were discolored, and presently 
he heard horses stamping in their near-by stalls. He was in a 
stable. The monkey was there, too, King Robert saw the 
horrid thing grinning and chattering in a corner. His past 
life seemed far away. He had to begin to live again, this time 
the butt and the jest of the palace. 

Days came and went, and the Angel still sat on the throne. 
The island of Sicily prospered under his reign. The crops 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


43 


were good, the vintage was abundant and the people were 
happy. 

King Robert yielded to fate, but he did not yield willingly. 



He became sullen and silent and was a sorry jester in spite of 
his gay dress and his jingling bells and the chattering monkey. 
The courtiers mocked him in innumerable ways and the 
nimble pages played pranks on him; he had to be content with 
scraps from the tables of his masters and the monkey was his 
only friend. 


44 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


Sometimes the Angel asked him, as though in jest, “Art 
thou the King?’ ’ and Robert, still defiant, replied haughtily, 
“I am, I am the King!’ ’ 

Almost three years passed. Then messengers, came from 
Valmond, Emperor of Germany to tell King Robert that their 
brother, Pope Urbane, summoned him to come on Holy 
Thursday to his city, Rome. The Angel welcomed the am- 
bassadors with fitting ceremony, and gave them magnificent 
presents, embroidered vests, velvet mantles, rare jewels and 
costly rings. Not only were his guests messengers from the 
great Yalmond but they were mighty nobles. 

As soon as he could get ready the Angel went with the am- 
bassadors and a mighty train of followers over the sea to Italy. 
As the procession travelled along crowds gathered to watch its 
progress. Never had there been seen a more gorgeous assem- 
bly. The Angel and his courtiers and the ambassadors were 
dressed in splendid garments with gold and gems and laces 
and embroideries and velvets and satins and nodding 
plumes, each one according to his state, and their horses 
were resplendent with gold and silver and jeweled bridles. 
After them rode the servants, less fine but equally gay, 
and among the lowliest of these was poor Robert riding in 
mock state on an awkward piebald pony. As the ridiculous 
steed shambled along, his rider’s cloak of fox-tails flapped 
in the wind and his bells jingled The king was very un- 
happy and his face showed it, but it was only a joke for a 
jester to look disconsolate and people were no more sorry for 
him than for the solemn monkey who perched demurely by 
his side and aped his ways. In all the country towns through 
which they went the gaping crowds stared at them and laughed. 

The Pope received the Angel and the Emperor with pomp 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


45 


Trumpets sounded a welcome and banners waved joyously, 
as they met on St. Peter’s square. The Pope embraced and 
blessed his brothers, as he thought, for even he did not know 
that he was entertaining an Angel. While prayers and re- 
joicing were at their height Robert the Jester burst through 
the crowd and rushed into the presence of the Pope and his 
guests. 

“I am the King,” he cried, addressing the Pope, “look and 
behold in me Robert, your brother, King of Sicily. That 
man who looks like me and wears my robes and my crown is an 
imposter. Do you not know me? Does nothing tell you that 
we are akin?” 

Robert was desperate. This seemed his last chance of re- 
gaining his rights. He was appealing to the highest authority 
in the world. 

The Pope looked troubled. He turned silently from Robert 
to the Angel with searching glances. The Angel met his 
scrutiny with perfect serenity. Yalmond only laughed. 

“It is strange sport to have a madman for thy jester,” he 
said to the Angel, whom he believed to be his brother. 

The baffled jester was hustled back into the crowd. He was 
in disgrace and suffered punishment for his untimely joke. 

Holy Week went by in solemn state, and Easter Sunday 
came. On that blessed morning the city was radiant with 
light even before the sun rose. The Angel’s presence made 
Rome bright, and filled men’s hearts with love and goodness. 
They felt as though Christ had indeed risen from the dead and 
were ready to devote themselves to him with fresh zeal. Even 
the Jester, as he opened his eyes to the marvelous light felt 
within his heart a power that he had never felt before. What 


46 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 


mattered it that his bed was straw? He fell on his knees beside 
it and prayed to the risen Christ. 

When the visit was ended Yalmond returned to Germany 
and the Angel and his train once more flashed along the towns 
of Italy and then set sail for Sicily. When they reached home 



ART THOU THE KING"? 


the Angel occupied the throne as before. Robert could not 
understand it but he was humbled and no longer felt angry 
and bitter. 

One evening when the convent bells were ringing for prayer 
the Angel beckoned to Robert to draw near and signed to 
the attendants to leave the room. When they were alone 
the Angel turned to Robert and asked with less sternness than 
ever before, “ Art thou the King?” 

King Robert bowed his head meekly and crossed his hands 
upon his breast. 

“Thou knowest best,” he said. “I have sinned. Let me 
go away from here and spend the rest of my days in a convent 


KING ROBERT OF SICILY. 47 

cell. There, kneeling on stones, I will beg heaven to forgive 
my pride.” 

The Angel smiled and the place was filled with a heavenly 
light. At the same moment through the open windows came 
the chant of the monks : 

“He has put down the mighty from their seat 
And has exalted them of low degree.” 

King Robert understood it at last. Then above the meas- 
ured tones of the singers rose another voice, one of heavenly 
sweetness. It said: 

“I am an Angel, thou art the King.” 

The King lifted his eyes. He was alone. No longer was he 
dressed in the motley attire of a jester, but he was in royal 
robes such as he used to wear, in velvet and ermine and cloth 
of gold. 

When the courtiers came back to the room they found their 
king on his knees, absorbed in silent prayer. 







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LADY WENTWORTH. 


AJ ORE than a hundred years ago Mistress Stavers, looking as 
■*■ * -*- neat as a new pin and as blooming as a rose, stood at her 
inn door in Queen Street, Portsmouth. Above her head swung 
the sign of the inn on which was painted a splendid portrait of 
the Earl of Halifax after whom the place was named. 

It was nine o’clock in the morning. Mistress Stavers had 
leisure to watch the passersby. She was a pretty sight for 
them as she stood in her white cap and her furbelows. Stavers, 
her husband was far away driving his new coach to Ipswich and 
Boston. She and the Earl of Halifax were alone. 

Down the street came a little girl, ragged and barefooted with 
laughing eyes and tangled hair. Slender and delicately formed, 
she was graceful and pretty, but her dress was shabby and tum- 
bled. Seeing her little feet, her bare arms and shoulders, and 
her merry face the Earl of Halifax thought her quite pleasing, 
but he was only a painted sign and could not speak of these 
charms. Mistress Stavers noticed only the careless dress and 
the neglected hair as she watched the little girl who hurried by 
with a pail of water, splashing her naked feet, as she went. 

“Fie, Martha Hilton,” cried the lady, “How can you go 
about town looking so! ” . 

“ Never mind how I look, ” answered the child, with a laugh. 
“Some day I shall ride in my own carriage and be very grand. 
See if I don’t!” 


49 


50 


LADY WENTWORTH. 



SOME DAY I SHALL RIDE IN MY OWN CARRIAGE 



LADY WENTWORTH. 


51 


Mrs. Stavers shrugged her shoulders as Martha turned the 
corner and was gone. 

“ It is easy to talk, ” she thought. 

But the Earl of Halifax smiled knowingly. He had seen 
strange things happen in his time, 

Mistress Stavers soon forgot Martha, for past the inn came a 
grand and brilliant chariot with the Governor inside and she be- 
gan to courtesy low and fast. Never had she seen anything 
more splendid, for the chariot was drawn by magnificent black 
horses with silver harness which flashed in the sun-light and 
dazzled her eyes, and was preceded by red-jacketed outriders 
whose glittering liveries made a brave show. The Governor 
sat on his velvet cushions, stately and dignified, in his three- 
cornered hat, crimson velvet coat, diamond buckles, and lace 
ruffles. His hair was nicely powdered, his cane was gold 
headed, and he bowed condescendingly to the inn-keeper’s wife. 

Governor Wentworth was on his way to Little Harbor, 
just beyond the town. There stood his great house near the 
highroad, but hidden from it by trees. It was a noble build- 
ing with innumerable gables and dormer-windows and stacks 
of chimneys, rising to the sky. Inside, were fine carving and 
paneling, oaken floors and tapestried walls, great, wide fire- 
places with brass andirons, and massive doors opening into 
mysterious passages, for there was a wilderness of unused rooms. 
The Governor was a widower and a childless man, and he was 
very lonely in his Great House with only servants and an- 
cestral portraits to keep him company. His ancestors looked 
down on him from heavy gilded frames, a long line of men 
and women who had borne Old Testament names, for the 
Wentworths were a godly race. 


52 


LADY WENTWORTH. 


Seven years came and went, long years in which pretty 
Martha Hilton grew to be a woman, and during them she served 
in the great House, rubbing mirrors, polishing silver and clean- 
ing brasses, until they shone like gold. She was a good servant 
and not only did she keep the fine rooms in order but she 
was always neat herself. 

Now she was twenty years old; there was no prettier girl in 
all the colony and she was as good and as useful as she was 
beautiful. 

The Governor’s sixtieth birthday came. Time was powder- 
ing his hair now, but he was still hale and hearty and as digni- 
fied and as stately as ever. 

His birthday was in the spring when the robins and bluebirds 
sang in the gardens and swallows were building under the eaves 
of the Great House. Golden buttercups dotted the grass and 
lilacs tossed their plumes in the air. It was a perfect day and 
the Governor gave a splendid banquet, one befitting the Gov- 
ernor of the State, who represented England and the King. 

All his friends and the great people of the colony were 
invited — the Pepperels, the Langdons, the Lears, the Spar- 
hawks, the Penhallows and the rest, far too long a list to be given, 
and among the others was the Reverend Arthur Brown of the 
Established Church who sat beside the Governor and said grace, 
thanking the Lord for His mercies and praying that the Govern- 
or might be spared for many happy birthdays. 

After they had drunk the King’s health with great en- 
thusiasm and many a cheer, the Governor turned and whis- 
pered something to one of the servants. The man left the 
room and presently Martha Hilton entered it and stood near the 
tloor awaiting the Governor’s pleasure. How beautiful she 
looked, how dignified! She was more queen-like than any 




LADY WENTWORTH. 


54 


LADY WENTWORTH 


highborn dame among the Governor’s company. Yet scarcely 
a guest noticed that she was there as she stood modest and self- 
possessed in her simple dress. 

The Governor arose from his chair and looked down, playing 
a little with his lace ruffles. Then turning to the Reverend 
Arthur Brown, he said: “This is my birthday; it shall also 
be my wedding day and you shall marry me!” 

The guests were puzzled and surprised. Upon whom could 
the Governor’s choice have fallen? The men looked at all 
the unmarried women inquiringly, and they, in turn, eyed one 
another wondering which among them was the future Lady 
Wentworth. No one was more mystified than the Reverend 
Arthur Brown. 

“Marry you!” he exclaimed. “With pleasure, Your Ex- 
cellency. We shall all be glad to see a mistress in the Gov- 
ernor’s mansion; she is the only thing it lacks. Marry you, 
yes ; but to whom, may I ask?” 

Governor Wentworth beckoned Martha to draw near. She 
came with many blushes and stood by his side. 

“To this lady,” he answered. 

The rector did not reply; he was amazed. 

“This is the lady,” repeated the Governor. Do you hesi- 
tate? As Chief Magistrate I command you to marry me to 
this lady.” 

The rector did as he was bade and read the service. The 
Governor put the wedding ring on the fourth finger of the 
bride’s small white hand and Martha was Lady Wentworth. 

The next time the Governor’s chariot went by the Earl of 
Halifax Inn, it was to Martha that Mistress Stavers curtesied 
low and fast. 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


HTHE old Baron of St. Castine was alone in his castle, except 
for his servants. His wife was dead, and his son had sailed 
away across western seas to the New World. It was spring 
when the young man left his beautiful home in the Pyrenees 
Mountains, and when winter came he was still far away and 
his old father sat lonely and gray by the fireside and longed 
for his return. 

At the Baron’s feet slumbered his house-dog, but the master 
did not sleep. Day after day, he thought of his son, some- 
times imagining dreadful accidents that might befall him, 
sometimes picturing rare good fortune that might attend 
him, but always thinking of him. 

From time to time the old man would shake off his dreams 
and leave his chair to wander restlessly through the house. 
His footsteps echoed along the floor as he went from room to 
room and down the long passages. When he came to one 
open door he always paused and gazed wistfully within with 
a sad, sweet smile. It was the room of his absent son. There 
was the bed on which he used to sleep ; there were his pictures, 
bright and gay, speaking eloquently of his love of adventure — 
paintings of horses and hounds and of ships and seas; and 
there were the chairs in which he used to sit and his beauti Til 
tiger-skin rug. On the wall were discarded hunting knives, 
arranged in the shape of a fan, and there were the lad’s first 
gun and his powder-flask. How proud he had been of the 
gun and of the flask. 

u 


56 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


The father looked absently through the window at the 
mountains and the valleys in the distance. Ah, me! He 
There were tears in his eyes. 

In the evening the village Curate 
always came to see the Baron. 
Promptly at seven o’clock his lantern 
could be seen coming through the 
gateway from the park into the 
dark courtyard, and a few minutes 
later he was at the old man’s side 
trying to enliven him with time- 
honored jokes and stories, as they 
sat before the pleasant wood-fire. 
But the Baron’s mind was not on the 
anecdotes of the genial and kindly 
Curate. One sad thought haunted 
his brain. 

“ Are there any tidings from over 
the sea?” he would ask night after 
night, and then, knowing full well 
what the answer would be, followed 
his sorrowful question with another. 
“ Ah, why has that wild boy left his 
home and me?” 

“ Young blood! young blood,” replied the Curate, shaking 
his head. “It must be so. One must not expect to find old 
heads on young shoulders. Let the young Baron see. the 
world. It must be so. ” 

Then the Curate would propose a little game of cards and the 
gentlemen would settle down to the pastime for an hour or 
two. As soon as the village cldck struck nine the game came 



THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


57 


to an end and the Curate took his leave. Then darkness- 
reigned in the Chateau. Ah, the long, sleepless nights! His 
pillow brought the old Baron but little relief from his loneliness, 
and his anxious thoughts. 

At last the ship came back from over the sea. She sailed 
into the harbor of Bordeau with a gallant company, but the 
young Baron -of St. Castine was not among the number. He 
had stayed behind in the New World. 

The father paced to and fro through the rooms and the halls 
of the old chateau eagerly expecting his son. Everything was 
ready for his reception. Empty chambers were thrown open, 
a fire was lighted in the young man’s room, and servants stood 
alert to welcome him. All listened for the. wheels of his 
carriage, but he did not come. Instead there were letters. 

In the evening the Curate came as usual to the chateau. 
The old Baron was glad to have some one to whom to read 
the precious words from over the sea. The letters were full of 
the young man’s delight in being out in the world, full of his 
adventures and of the wonderful scenes in the midst of which 
he was living. He told of the vast forests in the New World, 
of wild hunts, of strange people, of nights passed in Indian 
tents and of Madocawanda, the Tarratine Chief, whose daugh- 
ters were as beautiful and as glorious as queens. 

The Curate listened with smiling interest. 

“ Ah yes, dear friend,” he said, “ in our young days we should 
have liked to have hunted the deer all day in those grand old 
forests and to have slept in the tents of the Tarratines and to 
have beheld beautiful Indian Queens. We might have lost our 
hearts to the Queens in those days, but now it is better to be 
sitting quietly by this fire within four walls. Is it not so?” 


58 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


When the Curate spoke of losing hearts to Indian Queens the 
father looked surprised and a little dismayed. But he bowed 
his head and said nothing. Soon the pair were engaged in 
their usual game of cards. Nine o’clock struck. The Curate 
left. The day from which the Baron had hoped so much was 
gone, and his son- was still far away. 

Another day and many days went by, each one like the one 
before it, and then letters from the young man came a second 
time. Alas, these letters tore the old man’s heart. The Baron 
of St. Castine, as swift and as wild as the wind, had married an 
Indian, a daughter of the dusky chief Madocawanda. He 
praised her beauty and her virtues, but what mattered they 
to the father so long as his son had taken a savage to be his 
wife? 

The letter dropped from the old man’s hand. His heart was 
broken, but so great was his love for his boy that he spoke not 
a single word against him. His head fell low on his breast, his 
stately figure, which had always been so erect, bent like a 
reed, he sank into silent despair. Then he died. His last 
breath was a blessing on his wayward son 

The old Baron of St. Castine was at rest. Buried in the 
church he slept with his fathers and waited no longer for any- 
one. 

For many years the old chateau was unoccupied. The young 
Baron stayed in the New World with his dusky bride. Grasses 
grew tall in the courtyard, crows nested in the gables, swallows 
built in the chimneys and the hedges and the shrubberies grew T 
matted and ragged. Only the porter at the gate guarded the 
place and waited for the coming of its master. The Curate 
looked wistfully at the lonely buildings and the neglected 
grounds. The windows were always dark now and the doors 


THE BARON OF ST. CAST1NE. 


59 



THE LETTER DROPPED FROM THE OLD MAN’S HAND. 


60 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


were closed. He would be very glad to see the young Baron 
of St. Castine return to his own. 

At last, one spring day when birds were building and the 
woods were green a letter from over the sea came to the Curate. 

As soon as he had read it he dropped his work and started 
for the porter's lodge. He was so happy that he hummed 
gayly to himself, as he sped along the woodland way : 

“No day is so long 

But it comes at last to vesper song." 

The Baron was coming home with his Indian Queen, coming 
at once. All the house must be swept and cleaned, the grounds 
put in order, servants engaged, and everything must be in 
good array to welcome the master and his bride. The solemn 
porter shook his head at the news. There was plenty of work 
before him. 

“Lackaday!" he exclaimed, “we will see, as the blind man 
said." 

The day of the Baron's return dawned clear and bright. All 
was ready for him in the chateau, but the tender father who 
would have welcomed him so gladly, more gladly than anyone 
else in the world, was not there. His body was dust in the 
church below and his soul was in Heaven above. 

That night the old chateau blazed with light which streamed 
frcm every window; bells were rung, horns were blown, and all 
was rejoicing for the Baron who was coming to his own 
In the hall of the chateau stood men and maids and there also 
was the Curate most eager and alive of all to welcome the 
Baron and the Baroness. Now that the bustle of preparation 
was over and there was a brief period of waiting the good man's 
mind was full of vague distress as he thought of the. new Bar- 
oness. He had read of the children of the New World and 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


61 


now, he dreaded to see in the old chateau a painted savage, 
half -dressed and with streaming hair. She might be beautiful, 
he thought, but surely she would be wild. 



THE BARON WAS VERY PROUD OF HIS WIFE. 


Instead of a savage he saw a lovely lady, dark in coloring 
but as beautiful as a starry night. She was gentle and refined, 
winning and dignified; neither bold nor shy, short nor tall, but 
beautiful beyond belief. She spoke the Baron ’s native tongue 
with ease and her voice was like music. 

The Baron was evidently very proud of his wife. 

11 You see,” he said to the Curate, “ I told you only the truth 
about her.” 

And the Curate agreed with the Baron. Not only he ad- 
mired the Baroness but everyone else did so. The village folk 


62 


THE BARON OF ST. CASTINE. 


were delighted with her grace and beauty and her kindness of 
heart, and in course of time they learned to bless both the 
Baron and the Baroness. They could scarcely believe that she 
was an Indian although they knew it to be true. 

Every Sunday the Baroness went to church and kneeling 
in the spot in which the St. Castines had prayed for years 
listened to early mass. She took kindly to all the customs of 
her husband’s people and he admired her and loved her more 
than ever, but he was unhappy. 

At last he sought the Curate and confessed his trouble. He 
longed fordiis father’s blessing and for the blessing of Heaven on 
his marriage. The Curate told him that the old Baron had died 
breathing a blessing on his son and that he might feel that 
Heaven also had forgiven his waywaijdness. But still the 
Baron was not happy. He told the Curate that he had never 
married his wife in church. Far off in the New World he had 
wed her as the Indians did but he wanted the blessing of 
God on the marriage. 

One sunny day when the sky was a perfect blue and the birds 
sang so joyously that every bush and tree seemed alive the 
Baron and his wife passed through the wide-open doors of the 
church and down the aisle until they came to the stone above 
the father’s grave. On that they stood while the Curate asked 
for the blessing of God on their union. 

The church bells rang softly as they left the church and the 
happy villagers scattered flowers in their path. The Baron 
felt that he was reconciled to his dead father and that he had 
truly come to his own again 


THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 


'T'HE crossbill is a small bird, not unlike a bullfinch or a lin- 
net, except for its bill which is altogether singular. Its 
mandibles, or jaws, curve in opposite directions so as to cross 



each other. The bird is a native of Europe, Asia and North 
America and usually lives in pine forests, being found as far 
north as there are any pine trees. An ancient legend is told 
to account for its curious formation of the bill which gives 
the bird its name. Naturalists used to think that this bill 
was a deformity, but now they know that it is extremely 
useful to the bird in securing its food. A crossbill can tear 
up a pine or a fir cone in a few minutes and does so in order to 
get at the seeds. 


63 


64 


THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL. 


This is the legend : 

When the Saviour was dying on the cross He felt a trembling 
in one of His pierced and bleeding hands. He raised Hiseyes 
heavenward. A little bird was trying to pull out one of the 
great iron nails which held Him to the cross. All the world had 
forsaken Jesus except the tiny bird. The little creature was 
stained with blood but it worked steadily with its beak at the 
cruel nail. 

j^The Saviour spoke to the feeble bird which, weak as it was, 
was trying to release the Son of its Creator from the cross. He 
spoke very gently. Even in His suffering He remembered those 
about Him. 

“ Blessed be thou, ” He said to the little bird who, never tir- 
ing, still tried to move the nail. “ Blessed be thou. Bear as a 
token of this moment marks of the blood and cross. ” 

And the bird is called the crossbill, for since then its bill has 
been like a cross and it is covered with red like blood. When- 
ever it goes it bears the story of its helpfulness and its devotion . 


PANDORA. 


^EUS ordered Hephsestus to mold a beautiful woman out 
of clay Hephsestus did so, and the statue produced by 
him was as lovely as one of the Graces. 

As Hephsestus stood before his completed work, admiring 
each perfect feature, a mighty wind shook his house and rushed 
through all the halls and rooms. The woman’s lips parted, 
her bosom heaved, she bowed and lifted her head, she gazed 
around her as though amazed — she breathed and was alive ! 

There she stood with golden hair and blue eyes, graceful and 
enchanting. The Graces sang a song in her praise naming her 
Pandora, one possessed of all the gifts. 

All alone, on Mount Caucasus lived Prometheus who had 
offended the gods by stealing fire from heaven. Before Pro- 
metheus caught a spark from the sun -god’s chariot wheels 
and lighted his furnaces, there was no fire on earth. Therefore, 
mankind has much to thank Prometheus for, but the gods hated 
him. 

Zeus sent Hermes, the messenger of the gods, to Prometheus 
with Pandora. But, in spite of his solitary state, Prometheus 
refused to have anything to do with Pandora. He would not 
allow her even to enter his house. The gods had frowned on 
him so severely that he mistrusted a gift from them, feeling that 
even when one came in such a charming shape it must mean 
harm. 

Then Hermes took Pandora to Epimetheus, the brother of 
Prometheus . Epimetheus was very different from Prometheus. 

65 


66 


PANDORA. 


He was yielding and indolent, whereas his brother was possessed 
of indomitable will and untiring energy. 



SHE BREATHED AND WAS ALIVE! 


The moment that Epimetheus beheld Pandora he fell in love 
with her. He hailed her as a goddess and entreated her not to 
leave him. 

Pandora replied that she was only a woman, made of clay, 
and as mortal as the rest of mankind. 


PANDORA. 


67 


“Thy face is fair, thy eyes are wonderful, thou art enchant- 
ing/ ’ declared Epimetheus. “If thou shouldst stay with me 
and become my wife, would the gods be angry ?” he asked. 

“The gods sent me to thee/* answered Pandora. 

“That I am glad to believe, ” said Epimetheus, “ and believ- 
ing, am most happy. Surely it was not Hermes, who loves to 
plague mankind, who brought thee hither, but Eros, the god of 
love, for I loved thee when first my eyes beheld thee. ” 

“And I love thee ,” said Pandora. “ Yet I wonder how thou 
canst care for me who am a stranger to thee. ” 

“ It seems as though I had always known thee,” said Epime- 
theus. “ Surely, I have been waiting long for thee and now, at 
last, have found thee.” 

Happy in being together the pair wandered over Epimetheus' 
house. Pandora found every thing beautiful and she said pret- 
tily, that every room seemed “full of welcome.” The furni- 
ture was all fantastically handsome and its beauties were re- 
flected in innumerable mirrors, but most gorgeous of all, was an 
oaken chest carved with figures and embossed with gold. 

A 1 This chest is wonderful, ' ' cried Pandora . * ‘ What precious 

things dost thou keep within it?” 

“ It is a mystery , ' 9 replied Epimetheus . “Ido not know my- 
self.” 

“What! thou hast never looked inside?” 

“No, I am forbidden. In that chest sleeps a secret of the 
gods. We must not seek to know what they have hidden 
from us.” 

“As thou wilt,” said Pandora. 

They turned from the chest and left the house. In the 
garden the nightingales were singing love songs and every 
note chimed with the feelings of Epimetheus and Pandora. 


68 


PANDORA. 


The fragrance of the flowers, the soft breezes, and the sunset 
clouds were all delightful and the world seemed full of joy. 

Suddenly Prometheus interrupted the lovers. 

“Ho, Epimetheus,” he called. 

“It is my brother’s voice,” said Epimetheus. “Never was 
he more unwelcome.’ ’ 

Pandora fled and hid among the trees; she did not wish 
to see one who had treated her so rudely. 

“Epimetheus, who was that who fled from here, just as I 
came? asked Prometheus. “I saw some one flitting among 
the trees.” 

“ It was Pandora,’ ’ answered his brother. 

‘ ‘ 0, Epimetheus ! Thou hast in thy house a dangerous guest. 
Have I not warned thee to beware of the gifts of the gods?’ ’ 

“ Whom the gods would honor they send such guests.’ ’ 

“Nay, the gods send gifts to those whom they would de- 
stroy,’ ’ insisted the stronger brother, and he urged Epimetheus 
to go with him to Mount Caucasus, there to see how contented 
one could be with the results of his own labor. Epimetheus 
did not stop to say even a word to Pandora. Ever yielding 
he followed Prometheus as meekly as a child. 

Left alone, Pandora amused herself wandering from room 
to room in Epimetheus’ beautiful house. She admired every- 
thing, but most of all she was attracted by the mysterious 
chest. The carven faces seemed to grin at her and to mock 
her, tempting her to raise the heavy lid. But she clasped her 
hands behind her resolutely and turned away. 

“It is forbidden,” she said. 

Weary at last, and longing for the return of Epimetheus, 
she threw herself upon an inviting couch and fell asleep. 
Dreams of the chest visited her, she burned with desire to find 


PANDORA 


69 



I WILL HESITATE NO LONGER SHE SAID. 




70 


PANDORA. 


out the secret of its contents. It seemed something very 
wonderful and she awoke thinking only of it. She started 
from the couch and crossed the room. 

“I will hesitate no longer/’ she said. “Come good or bad 
fortune, life or death — I will know the secret of the gods.’ ’ 

In a moment it was done. 

Pandora lifted the lid and a dense mist arose from the chest, 
filling the room. Pandora fell senseless to the floor. Out- 
side lightning flashed and thunder crashed and there was a 
great wind. Into the world had been let loose every trouble 
that mankind was to know. The Golden Age was over. 

Before Pandora opened the chest good was abundant and 
evil rare; happiness was the rule and sorrow seldom felt. But 
now pestilence and pain, hunger and cold, sin and grief, fear 
and madness were released from their prison, and a whole tribe 
of dreadful winged ills flew far and wide over the earth. 

But Hope was left behind. Hope stooped and kissed Pan- 
dora on the forehead and she arose from her swoon. 

Back from Mount Caucasus came Epimetheus. The storm 
was over, but it had left behind it ruin and desolation. The 
garden walks were covered with leaves and shattered boughs, 
vines were torn from their fastenings, and flowers were be- 
draggled and dead. Birds nests were overturned and fledglings 
were killed. Where all had been so joyous a few short 
hours before, all was now visited by disaster. Epimetheus’ 
heart was heavy. He dreaded the worst. Where was Pan- 
dora? He should not have left her. 

As he drew nearer the house, Pandora came from the door. 
She was pale and terrified. 


PANDORA. 


71 


“0, Epimetheus,” she said, “I am no longer worthy of thy 
love; I dare not lift my eyes to thine / ’ 

“ What hast thou done?’ ’ asked Epimetheus. 

“Thou cans’t never forgive me. I deserve to be killed/ ’ 
she said. 

“What hast thou done?” he repeated. 

“ I do not ask for pardon/ ’ 

“What hast thou done?” 

“ It is too terrible to tell/ ’ faltered poor Pandora. 

“Speak / ’ commanded Epimetheus. 

“ I have brought ruin on thy house. I have penetrated the 
secret of the chest and the gods are full of anger/ ’ 

“Nothing could be worse,” groaned Epimetheus. “We 
are undone.” 

‘ 1 Punish me, ’ ’ prayed Pandora, ‘ ‘ kill me ; my sin is too great 
for pardon.” 

“The sin is mine,” said Epimetheus. “I should not have 
left thee alone with temptation. 0, why did I leave thee.” 

“I will pray the gods to punish only me,” sobbed Pandora. 
“Leave me alone, Epimetheus. To be without thee, alone 
with my misery, will be the worst that can befall me.” 

“Pandora, I love thee still. The punishment is for both 
man and woman. Together we will bear it bravely. Grief 
shared is grief halved. As I came along the garden walk I 
saw a fallen nest, but the birds were already building 
another.” 

“That is a good omen,” said Pandora, comforted a little. 

“We will build new happiness for ourselves/’ prophesied 
Epimetheus. 

“ And I will bear the stings of evil, for it was I who opened 


72 


PANDORA. 


the chest. I will not complain, and, perhaps, at last we shall 
be forgiven, said Pandora. 



Hand in hand, Pandora and Epimetheus entered the ruined 
house. Over them hovered radiant hope; the sun had come 
out and her wings shone with celestial light. 


The Courtship of Miles Standish. 


TV >T ILES STANDISH and John Alden were both in love with 
1VX Priscilla, the beautiful Puritan maiden, but neither had 
told the other his secret. 

Miles Standish was the captain of the little army of the Pil- 
grim colony at Plymouth, and John Alden, the youngest of 
the men who had come over to the New World in the May- 
flower, was his friend and his household companion. 

Captain Standish was no longer young, but he was strong 
and muscular, with broad shoulders and a deep chest; his face 
was as brown as a nut and his russet beard was flaked with 
gray, but his heart was warm and young. 

John Alden was fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a com- 
plexion as pink and white as a girl’s; he was a writer and not a 
soldier, yet he was brave and manly, else he, so young and in- 
experienced, would not have been a member of the little colony 
surrounded by dangers. 

One day Miles Standish strode to and fro in a room in 
his log house. He was buried in thought, although sometimes 
he paused in his walk long enough to look at his shining 
weapons which made a fine show on the walls of the room. 

John Alden was seated near him at a table writing letters 
that must be finished to go home on the Mayflower the follow- 
ing day when she was to sail, God willing. 

Suddenly the captain broke the silence. Said he, “ Look at 
these weapons that hang here so bright and so clean. This is 

73 


74 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


the sword with which I fought in Flanders, and this glittering 
breastplate once saved my life in a skirmish. Here is the dent 
made by the bullet fired straight at my heart by a Spaniard. 
Had it not been for this shield Miles Standish ’s bones would be 
mouldering in a forgotten grave in Flanders!” 

“Surely the Lord 
preserved you to be our 
shield and our weapon,” 
answered John Alden, 
without looking up from 
his writing. 

“See how bright my 
arms are,” continued 
Miles Standish, “ each 
one burnished as though 
for parade or inspection. 
That is because I have 
polished them myself, 
and not left the work 
to others. Tf you would be well served, serve yourself/ is an 
excellent saying.” 

The Captain paused in his walk again, this time at the win- 
dow. 

“There on the hill lies buried Rose Standish, first to die of 
all those who came in the Mayflower,” he said. “Beautiful 
rose of love that bloomed for me by the wayside, she is gone, 
and on her grave grows the wheat that we have planted to hide 
from the Indians the number of those that we have lost. It 
is better that they should not know how many of us have 
perished.” 

He turned away, and silently and sadly continued his walk. 



JOHN ALDEN. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


75 


On the opposite wall from the weapons was a shelf of books, 
and among them were three more often read by Miles Standish 
than any of the others. These were Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, 
Caesar’s Commentaries and the Bible. Standish stopped 
before the shelves and took down the ponderous Caesar. He 
seated himself at the window and opened the book. Now all 



MILES STANDISH. 


was still in the room except the pen of John Alden which wrote 
steadily on. His letters were full of Priscilla, full of the name 
and the praise of Priscilla, the beautiful Puritan maiden. 

After awhile Miles Standish spoke again. 

“A wonderful man was Julius Caesar!” he exclaimed. 
“You are a writer and I am a fighter, but here is a man who 
could write and fight and do both equally well.” 

“Yes,” answered John Alden, “Caesar could both write and 
fight, and in both was equally skillful. Somewhere I have 
read that he could dictate seven letters at once and at the same 
time be writing his memoirs.” 

“Yes,” continued Miles Standish, scarcely heeding John’s 
comment, “truly, Caius Julius Caesar was wonderful. He 


76 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


was married twice before he was twenty, and many times after 
that; he fought five hundred battles, and conquered a thousand 
cities. He fought in Flanders, too, for he has told us so him- 
self. At last, he was stabbed by Brutus — Brutus, who was 
his friend. 

“Once in Flanders when the rear-guard of his army re- 
treated and the front gave away and the immortal Twelfth 
Legion was crowded so closely together that there was no 
room for their swords, Caesar seized a shield from a soldier and 
put himself right at the head of his troops and, calling on each 
captain by name, commanded them to order forward the en- 
signs and to widen the ranks, giving room for the play of the 
weapons. So he won the day. Ah, a wonderful man was 
Caesar! As I always say, if you wish a thing well done, you 
must do it yourself and not leave it to others! ” 

The Captain returned to his reading and the room was still 
again, except for John Alden’s busy pen. At last Standish 
closed his book with a sudden bang and spoke directly to the 
young man. 

“When you have finished your writing, I have something im- 
portant to tell you,” he said. “Do not hasten; I can wait 
without impatience.” 

John Alden was folding the last of his letters. 

“ I am ready,” he replied. “I am always ready to listen to 
Miles Standish.” 

The Captain was embarrassed and spoke slowly, choosing his 
words. 

“The Bible says that it is not good for man to be alone,” he 
said, “and I feel the truth of it. Every day and hour since 
Rose Standish died I have been lonely and sorrowful. Often I 
have thought of the maiden Priscilla; she is alone in the world, 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


77 


forher father and mother and brother all died in the winter. 
She is strong and brave and patient . I have watched her as she 
has ministered to the sick and the dying. Surely if there is an 
angel on earth it is Priscilla. I have known two angels; one is 
now in heaven and the other might hold in my life the place 
which she has left empty. I have long felt this, but have not 
dared to speak to the maiden. Go to Priscilla, the loveliest mai- 
den in Plymouth, and tell her, for me, that a blunt old Captain 
offers her his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a 
soldier. You will know how to say all this for you are a 
scholar, familiar with books and fine language. I am only a 
plain soldier, and do not know with what words it is best to 
woo a maiden.” 

John Alden was aghast and bewildered. He had not dreamed 
that the Captain loved Priscilla. Miles Standish was his 
best friend, yet John was in love with the same maiden, and 
had meant to ask her to be his wife. He tried to cover his con- 
fusion and dismay with a smile, and answered as lightly as he 
could. 

“ Remember your favorite saying; if you wish a thing well 
done you must do it yourself! ” 

“It is a good maxim/’ replied the Captain, “but we must 
use maxims like gun-powder, discreetly. I am not afraid of 
bullets nor a shot from a cannon, but I am afraid of a thunder- 
ing ‘No!’ from the mouth of Priscilla. Do this for me, John. 
What I ask in the name of friendship, do not deny me. ” 

“What you ask in the name of friendship, I cannot refuse 
you,” answered John Alden, solemnly, and he went on the 
errand. 

It was spring and the woods were full of song and of perfume. 
John passed out of the village street into the forest and followed 


78 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

one of its paths. At his feet blossomed May flowers. “ These 
are just like Priscilla,” he thought, “ modest and simple and 



“ WHAT I ASK IN THE NAME OF FRINDSHIP DO NOT DENY ME." 

sweet. ” His brain was in a whirl. He could scarcely realize the 
errand on which he was bent. W as it for this that he had loved 
the Puritan maiden so long? Was it for this that he had been 
the friend of Miles Standish? How could love and friendship so 
conflict with one another? Surely the Lord was punishing him 
for his sins. He must have done something displeasing to God 
and so was sent this cross. If so, it was his duty to bear it 
patiently. 

He stopped and gathered some flowers for Priscilla. They 
were a fit emblem of his love and his dreams, he thought, 
beautiful now, but soon to wither and to die. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


79 


Presently he came to a clearing in the forest on which stood 
a newly built house. Its owners were at work out-doors, but 
within was Priscilla. He could hear her singing. On opening 
the door he saw her seated at her spinning wheel. As she fed 
the spindle with the white wool she sang from an open Psalm 
book on her lap. Her song and her beauty seemed to fill the 
room and John Alden felt that it would be almost impossible to 
do the bidding of Miles Standish. 

Priscilla arose to welcome the young man, giving him her 
hand. 

“ I knew it was you,” she said, “for I heard your step. 
I was thinking of you, as I sat here singing and spinning. ” 

She had been thinking of him! Ah, it was hard to speak. 
He gave her the flowers, silently She received them with 
pleasure. They sat down and talked of the flowers and the 
birds and the beautiful spring time. 

“I have been thinking all day of spring,” said Priscilla, “of 
spring, and of England whither the Mayflower is going to- 
morrow. The people I live with are kind, but still I am lonely 
and sad, and often dream of the hedge-rows of England and 
almost wish myself back in the lanes and the fields and the 
quite village street. ” 

“ I do not wonder, ” answered the young man. “ It has been 
a terrible winter here in Plymouth and stouter hearts than a wo- 
man’s have quailed. You need some one to lean upon, some 
one to support and protect you, for your heart is tender and 
trusting. I have come to you now with an offer of marriage 
made by a good and a true man, Miles Standish, the Captain of 
Plymouth.” 

Miles Standish himself could not have delivered the message 


80 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


more bluntly. Embarrassed and overwrought, John Alden 
had blurted it out like a school boy. 

Priscilla was amazed. She felt stunned and sorrowful. She 
had had reason to believe that John Alden loved her, and now 
he was the bearer of an offer of marriage from another. For 
a while both were silent. Then the maiden spoke. 

“ If the great Captain of Plymouth is so anxious to marry me, 
why does he not come and tell me so himself? If I am worth 
wedding, I am worth the trouble of wooing. ” 

John Alden hastened to explain, and in his confusion only 
made matters worse, for he stammered out that the captain 
was so busy that he had no time for such things. 

“Such things!” exclaimed Priscilla, “if he has no time now 
for ‘such things/ as you call me, would he be likely to have any 
after he was married? That is the way with you men, you 
no not understand women. You think that you have only 
to ask to obtain. The captain has never shown that he loved 
me and how can I be expected to respond to his affection? If 
he had but taken time to woo me, he might have won me, old 
and rough as he is, but now, that can never happen.’ ’ 
Unheeding the words of Priscilla, the faithful John Alden 
went on urging the suit of his friend. He told how brave the 
captain was, how good, how honorable, how generous, how 
noble. He said that he was a gentleman born, who could trace 
his descent plainly back to Hugh Standish of Duxbury Hall, 
in Lancashire, England, who was the son of Ralph and tlie 
grandson of Thurston de Standish; that he had chosen to suffer 
affliction with the people of God, and that they; appreciating 
his worth, had made him Captain of Plymouth. Though 
he was small in stature, his heart was great, though he seemed 
rough, he could be as gentle and as tender as a woman, though 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 81 


somewhat hasty and headstrong and stern, as became a soldier, 
Miles Standish was good-hearted and easily governed by his 
affections. He was so great a man, so good a Christian, so 
fine a gentleman that any woman in Plymouth, may any 
woman in England, might Le proud and happy to be the wife 
of Miles Standish! 

John Alden forgot himself in his zeal for his friend, but as he 
went on, unselfishly praising his rival, Priscilla, listening to 
his glowing language thought of him and not of the Captain. 
She admired his generosity and his eloquence. At last she 
spoke. It was with difficulty that she could command her 
voice for she wanted to laugh, yet she felt a maidenly shyness. 
Said she, with her eyes full of amusement : 

“Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?’ 

John Alden sprang to his feet and rushed from the house 
like an insane man. He was bewildered and perplexed and 
felt as though he had betrayed his trust. He went straight 
to the seaside and bared his heated brow to the east wind. 

“Is it my fault that she prefers me?” he cried. “Is it my 
fault that she has chosen between us and that I am the victor?” 

Then conscience spoke, urging him to resist temptation and 
to be true to his friend. He felt guilty and overwhelmed and 
put his happiness resolutely behind him. 

He looked at the sea and saw the Mayflower riding at 
anchor in the distance, rocked on the incoming tide. She 
was ready to sail to-morrow. 

“The Lord is leading me,” he said to himself, “He means 
me to return to England. Better were I dead and in a grave 
there than living here untrue to friendship. ’ ’ 

He turned and left the shore and, walking through the forest 
came to Plymouth. It was already dark and the lights in the 


82 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


seven houses of the little village shone and twinkled like stars. 

He found the Captain reading his favorite Caesar. 

“You have been gone a long time/' he said, as he looked 
up from his book. “It is not far to the house in the forest 
but you have lingered so that I have had time to fight ten 
battles and to sack a city. Sit down and tell me all that has 
happened.' ' 

The captain spoke cheerfully, and as though he were not 
arfaid of hearing bad news. John Alden told his story just 
as it had happened, that he had seen Priscilla and told her that 
Miles Standish wished to marry her, only smoothing it a little 
and softening down her refusal. But when he told how 
Priscilla had cut short his praises of his friend by saying, 
“Why don't you speak for yourself, John?" the Captain sprang 
angrily to his feet and stamped on the floor until his armor 
shook, as it hung on the wall. He shouted in his wrath, “John 
Alden you have betrayed me; you have supplanted and de- 
frauded your friend — I who have loved and trusted you as a 
brother. I trusted my honor to you, you have betrayed me. 
One of my ancestors stabbed Wat Tyler. He was a traitor 
to his king, but you are a worse traitor, a traitor to your friend. 
You are like Brutus. Brutus was Caesar’s friend. From this 
time there can be no more friendship between us, nothing but 
hatred!” 

While the Captain was raging in his anger a man appeared 
at the doorway with a message of the greatest importance. 
Danger was threatening the colony from the Indians and her 
captain was wanted at once. 

Standish immediately obeyed the summons. Seizing his 
sword from the wall, he fastened its belt around his waist and 
strode angrily away to the council. 



PRISCILLA. 



84 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


John Alden was left alone. He, also, went out in the dark- 
ness. He felt as though he needed the cool air to blow away 
the hot insults that had brought the blood leaping to his 
cheeks. 

The Captain found the council assembled and waiting his 
coming. These men, with their wives and children, driven by 
religious persecution from the Old World, had sought freedom 
to worship God in the savage forests of the New. Little they 
knew it, but they were planting the seeds of a mighty and a 
free nation. 

Before the council was standing a fierce and defiant Indian 
who had brought the challenge of his people to the palefaces. 
This was represented by the glittering skin of a rattlesnake 
filled, like a quiver, with arrows. The Indian was sternly 
awaiting an answer, and the men before whom he stood were 
considering what that answer should be. Only one was for 
peace and that was the venerable Elder of Plymouth, a man 
who stood so near to heaven that his head was white with 
snow like a mountain that touches the sky. 

Said Miles Standish, “Leave this matter to me, for to me 
it belongs. War is terrible, but when the cause is just, the 
smell of powder is sweet.” 

He jerked the arrows from the skin and filled it to the very 
jaws with powder and shot. “Here, take this,” he said, “this 
is your answer.” 

The savage received the skin silently and left the room. 
Back to the brethren in the forest he carried the dreadful 
message . 

In the early dawn Captain Standish and his little army 
marched slowly out of Plymouth, led by Holomok, their Indian 
guide, who was a friend of the white men. They were miles 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 85 


away in the forest when the sun rose on the village that they 
had left behind. 

The people of Plymouth had much to talk about and to at- 
tend to that morning. Not only had their Captain and his 
men gone forth to fight a cruel enemy, but the Mayflower was 
to sail. After morning prayers in which they asked the 
Heavenly Father to aid and to protect them, men, women and 
children hurried to the beach to say good bye to the men who 
were going home across the sea. 

John Alden was there with the rest, only he meant to return 
with the Mayflower. He was eager to be off and to put an 
end to his suffering for he thought that he might fly from 
grief and despair, from which no one can fly. As he stood near 
the boat, John turned and looked at the crowd. He saw 
Priscilla with the others. She was dejected and pale and 
looked at him as though she guessed what he was about to do, 
and implored him not to leave. 

His feelings underwent a sudden change and he exclaimed, 
“Here I will stay, stay to protect her. Yes, mine was the 
first foot that stepped on this rock at the landing, and it shall 
be the last to leave it, please God.” 

Farewells were said, and the Captain sprang at last into 
the boat that was to take him to his vessel. His head was full 
of messages and his bags were full of letters for the people at 
home. He was glad to leave this land of the terrible winter, 
“a land of sand and sickness and sorrow,” he thought, “short 
allowance of food, and plenty of nothing but Gospel.” 

But the Pilgrims, brave souls, of all those that came in the 
Mayflower not one went back. 

Soon songs and shouts were heard from on board the May- 
flower; her sails were set on the west wind and she sailed out 


86 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


of the harbor. The Pilgrims watched her until she had faded 
from their sight and then they fell on their knees and prayed ; 
thanking God and taking courage, they left the shore and went 
to their work. Alden lingered on the beach thinking of many 
things, but most of all Priscilla. When he turned to go there 
was Priscilla standing by him. 

“Are you so much offended by what I said yesterday that 
you will not speak to me?” she asked. “I could not help say- 
ing what I did. You praised your friend so warmly, with never 
a thought of yourself, turning even his faults into virtues, that 
I spoke impulsively. Forgive me, for the sake of the friend- 
ship between us ; that is too true to be broken. ’ ’ 

“I was not angry with you,” answered John Alden,” but I 
was angry with myself; I managed the matter badly.” 
j “No, you were angry with me,” answered Priscilla. “I 
should not have spoken as I did.” 

Poor John was far from angry with the beautiful maiden, 
but for his friend’s sake he would not tell her of his love. Yet 
he spoke very warmly of his friendship for her saying, “We 
must always be friends, and of all your friends, pray let me be 
the first and the truest.” 

As they went home John related how nearly he had sailed 
on the Mayflower but that he had stayed for her sake. 

“ How good you are to me,” faltered Priscilla. 

In the meantime Miles Standish and his little army were 
marching northward through forest and swamp. After three 
days they came to the Indian camp. There the women were 
at work and the men were seated around a fire smoking and 
talking together. When they saw Standish they leaped to 
their feet and two of them advanced to meet him. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 87 


The two chiefs were brothers and both of them were as tall 
as giants. One was named Pecksuot and the other Watta- 
wamat. “ Welcome, Englishmen/ They said, using fair words 
caught from traders, but although friendship was in their 
mouths, in their hearts was hatred. They offered the Captain 
presents of furs and asked in return for muskets and for pow- 
der. These Standish would not give them but proffered 
Bibles instead. They immediately changed their tone when 
they found they could not get what they wanted. 

“Wattawamat can see that the Captain is angry/ ’ said the 
elder chief, “but the heart of the brave Wattawamat is not 
afraid. Wattawamat was not born as others are. He sprang 
from an oak tree split by lightning; He was fully armed and 
cried at once , 1 Who is there to fight the brave Wattawamat ?’” 

Then up spoke Pecksuot, and he drew his knife half from 
its sheath and let it slip back, “ By and by this knife shall see; 
it shall eat, but it shall speak not. So this is the mighty Cap- 
tain that the white men have sent to destroy us. He is a little 
man; let him go and work with the women.’ ’ 

Standish did not tremble at the sight of the sharp knives of 
the savages nor because of the many Indians peeping and 
creeping about behind the trees of the forest. But the taunts 
and the insults of the chiefs made his hot blood boil and his 
veins swell. Snatching his knife from its scabbard he plunged 
it straight to the heart of the boasting savage who fell back- 
ward with his face to the sky, never to rise again. 

The Indians answered with a flight of arrows and these were 
replied to with the white men’s smoke and fire. The fright- 
ened savages fled, but Wattawamat was not with them; he 
was dead, a bullet had passed through his brain. 


88 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 


Hobomok, the friend of the white men, stood with folded 
arms and looked at the bodies of the dead warriors. At last 
he said with a smile, “ Pecksuot bragged very loud of his size 
and his strength and his courage and he mocked the great 
Captain and called him a little man, but the Captain has been 
big enough to lay Pecksuot speechless before him.” 

The Pilgrims rejoiced in the victory of Miles Standish and 
thanked God for the result of the encounter. The head of the 
brave Wattawamat was brought to Plymouth and nailed to 
the front of the meeting house, which was used also as a fort- 
ress, there to inspire terror in the breasts of the Indians. 
Priscilla shuddered when she saw the bloody trophy and re- 
joiced that she had not married the terrible Captain, Miles 
Standish. 

Through the summer, Standish scoured the forest with his 
little army fighting and defeating the Indians until his name 
became a sound of terror among them. Alden, at home in the 
village, in the meantime, was busy building himself a house. 
It was solid and substantial, though rough, for it was built 
of the firs of the forest; its roof was covered with rushes, its 
windows were latticed and had panes of oiled paper instead 
of glass, and its door was stoutly barred with wood. Near the 
house the builder dug a well and around it he planted an 
orchard. His neighbors were busy with like labors and the 
summer passed peacefully away except for the battles of 
Standish with the Indians. These were carried on fan off in 
the forest and at last as the Captain ranged farther from the 
village there came to the settlers only rumors of his doings. 

In the autumn merchant ships came to Plymouth bringing 
friends and cattle and corn for the Pilgrims. A snow-white 
bull was given to John Alden as his share of the cattle and he 



JOHN ALDEN AND PRISCILLA. 


90 THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 

built it a stall close to his house. He was very comfortable 
now but lonely. Often when his day’s work was done he would 
visit his friend, Priscilla, and sit and talk to her while she sat 
spinning. One day as he was clumsily holding a skein which she 
was winding and they were very merry over his awkwardness, a 
breathless messenger interrupted them with news from the village. 

Miles Standish was dead! 

Yes, an Indian had brought the dreadful news ; the Captain 
had been shot by a poisoned arrow and all his men were killed. 

What would become of the village without 
its gallant protector? It would be burned 
and all the people be murdered. 

Priscilla was silent with horror, but a 
thought struck John Alden as swift as the 
arrow that pierced the heart of his friend. 
There was nothing now to keep him and 
Priscilla apart. He clasped her in his arms 
and in spite of his grief *and his distress, 
he exclaimed, “ Those whom God hath joined 
together, let not man put asunder.” 

On a beautiful day when the sun was 
shining with all the glory of a New England 
autumn Priscilla and John were married 
and were blessed by the good old Elder of 
Plymouth. When the service was ended a 
gray and sorrowful figure, clad in armor, 
was seen in the doorway, The bride turned pale, and 
the bridegroom trembled and stared. Was it the spirit 
of Miles Standish come from the forest to rebuke them? 

No; the figure entered the room now that the prayers and 
the pledges were ended. The people beheld with joy and 
amazement their Captain. Miles Standish. 



HE CLASPED HER IN HIS 
ARMS. 


THE COURTSHIP OF MILES STANDISH. 91 


Grasping his friend’s hand, Miles Standish said with feeling, 
“ Forgive me. I have been to blame. I have been angry and 
hurt, but now, thank God, that is over.” 

“ Let all be forgotten,” answered John Alden, “ all except the 
dear old friendship between you and me, and let that grow 
dearer and older.” 

Then the Captain gravely and politely saluted the bride 
after the manner of the gentlemen of old England. He wished 
her joy and praised her husband, adding with a smile: 

“I should have remembered the saying, ‘If you would be 
well served, you must serve yourself. 














































s 






























.X 


























v- - 














tf. 




\ -• 


s 

* 



































THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S NEST. 


O NCE when the army of the Emperor Charles of Spain was 
besieging an old frontier town in Flanders his grave and 
bearded commanders were gathered together outside his tent 
cursing the tedium of the siege, the bad weather and the Flem- 
ish mud. 



Presently one of them spied a swallow's nest under the eaves 
of the great tent. There sat the bird brooding over her eggs 
in their cradle of mud and horsehair. 

“This impudent swallow has mistaken the Emperor's tent 
for a shed," said a nobleman, twirling his gray mustache, 
“perhaps for a stable and she treats his royal highness’ dwell- 
ing as unceremoniously as though it were that of the army 
mules." 


93 


94 


THE EMPEROR’S BIRD’S NEST. 


Charles was within the tent and he heard the nobleman’s 
sneer. Half in anger, half in shame, he came out from his can- 
vas palace. 

“Let no one harm the bird or disturb her,” he said gravely. 
“She is wise; in time of war and trouble she has come to me 
for protection and she shall have it.” 

Golondrina, the feminine form of golondrino, the Spanish 
for swallow, is a term used to denote a deserter. This is ap- 
propriate, as swallows fly away as soon as cold winds begin 
to blow. 

The Emperor, jesting, said, “Golondrina is my guest; she is 
the wife of some deserter.” 

The Emperor’s joke went through all the camp and the 
soldiers laughed over his kindly humor as they sat at dinner 
and drank their Flemish beer. 

The swallow was safe. Unharmed and unafraid, she sat 
and brooded on her nest throughout the siege. At last the 
guns of the Spaniards made a breach in the enemies’ walls and 
the Emperor Charles and his army entered the town. When 
the tents were struck and the army moved on the tiny swallows 
were still unfledged, Charles’ tent remained behind for the 
Emperor had ordered curtly : ‘ ‘ Leave it standing. ’ ’ 

It stood there, all alone, torn and tattered and flapping in 
the wind affording shelter to Golondrina and her brood until 
all the birds were grown and had flown away. Over the ruined 
town and its shattered walls the birds sang their merry songs. 
War had not been terrible to them. 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 



‘HE skipper of the Hesperus had made a great many voyages 


and from every one he had come home safe. While he was 
away from home he missed his little daughter, and he was 
glad when she was old enough to go to sea. She was a beau- 
tiful child with eyes as blue as the flower of the flax and cheeks 
as pink as the sky at dawn and hair as brown as glossy chest- 


nuts. 


The little girl was a favorite with all the crew; she was pious 
and obedient and as merry as the day was long. For the 
skipper she made the voyage seem very short. He showed 
her how he steered his schooner and taught her the names 
of the stars. Very likely she thought nothing so fine as sailing 
and wished that she had been a boy in order that she might 
be a sea-captain like her father. 

“ You will take me with you always on your voyages, won't 
you, father?" she asked, coaxingly. 

v “What would mother say?" laughed the skipper, and he 
patted the curly head. 

“0, please, father," the child begged. 

“We will see about that, little daughter," answered the 
father, pleased by the girl's fondness for the sea. “It is in 
her blood," he thought, fondly. 

Sailing is delightful in fair weather when the waters are 
calm and the sky is clear, but, alas! stormy days come when 
sea and sky grow terrible, and the stoutest craft is too weak 
to resist their power. 


95 


96 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 


One evening the skipper stood at his helm with his pipe in 
his mouth. The wind blew the smoke now west, now south. 

“It looks like a storm/ ’ said an old sailor who had made 
long voyages in far-away seas, “you had better put into 
yonder port, I think we shall have a hurricane . ’ ’ 

The skipper laughed, and took another whiff at his pipe. 

“ It is not like you to be afraid of a little blow, ’ ’ he said . 

“It is no little blow/’ answered the old sailor, solemnly. 
“Last night the moon had a ring around her, and to-night 
there is no moon. Best look out, skipper.” 

Colder and louder blew the wind, until there was a regular 
gale from the northwest, with snow and hail. The vessel 
tossed on the frothing billows; the wind smote it with might, 
and it leaped like a live thing. 

The skipper’s daughter grew frightened, but she did not cry 
out, for she was brave. 

“Come here, my little daughter/’ said her father. “Do 
not tremble so. I am used to gales and can weather the 
roughest ones that blow.” 

Tenderly, he wrapped her in his warm seaman’s coat to 
protect her against the cutting wind and he took a rope from 
a broken spar and tied her to the mast. It was so rough that 
otherwise she could not have kept on her feet. 

“Father, I hear church-bells ringing. How can that be?” 
she asked. 

“It is nothing but a fog-bell, dear,” answered the skipper. 
“ It is rung to warn us away from dangerous rocks on the coast. ’ ’ 

Obedient to the bell, the skipper steered for the open sea. 

“0, father, I hear the sound of guns! What can it be?” 
cried the little girl. 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 


97 


“It is some ship in distress that cannot live in this angry 
sea!” replied the man with difficulty. 

“0, father, I see a bright light ! Where does it come from?’ ’ 
called the child. 



TENDERLY HE WRAPPED HER IN HIS WARM SEAMAN’S COAT. 


Her father did not answer. He was dead, frozen at the helm , 
The little girl clasped her hands and prayed to Jesus, He who 
stilled the storm on Lake Galilee, many hundred years ago, and 
who is with all who are in danger now, even as then. She 
thought of God who holds the ocean in the hollow of His hand 
and trusted in Him. 


98 


THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 


Fierce waves swept the frozen bodies of the crew from the 
deck; only she was left. She did not suffer, bitter cold as it 

was. Sheltered from the wind, 
where her father had placed her, 
/ / / \ and wrapped in his heavy great 

; coat, she fell asleep. 

The vessel was white with 
snow and ice, and it looked like 
a ship of glass with its glisten- 
ing ropes coated with frozen 
spray and sleet. It swept 
toward the dreadful reef o f 
Norman’s Woe. Left without 
steersman or captain, the wind 
had the ship at its mercy. 
Straight on the rocks it drove 
her where the white billows 
that looked as soft as carded 
wool hid the sharp and jagged 
rocks. 

The next morning all was 
calm and quiet. A fisherman 
went down to the beach to see how his boat-house had fared in 
the storm. The shore was strewn with wreckage and there on 
the sand, still lashed to the mast, was the body of the skipper’s 
little daughter. 

She and her father had gone on their last voyage together. 



LASHED TO THE MAST. 



AFTER THE STORM. 


L.ofC. 



SANDALPHON. 


A MONG the ancient legends in the Talmud, a sacred Jewish 
book, there is a beautiful one which tells of Sandal- 
phon, the angel of prayer. 

At the very outermost gate of heaven this glorious being 
stands erect with his feet on the ladder of light that Jacob saw 
in his dream, thousands of years ago, when the world was young. 

Says the Bible : 

“And Jacob went out from Beersheba, and went toward 
Haran. 

And he lighted upon a certain place, and tarried there all 
night, because the sun was set; and he took of the stones of that 
place, and put them for his pillows, and lay down in that place 
to sleep. 

And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, 
and the top of it reached to heaven : and behold the angels of 
God ascending and descending on it. ” 

Serene and unmoved amid this throng of heavenly messen- 
gers stands Sandalphon listening breathlessly to every sound 
that comes from earth. No prayer escapes his ears. He hears 
little children’s lisping petitions as well as the supplications of 
kings and princes, and understands the broken whispers of 
timid sufferers as easily as the worship of large congregations, 
with their pealing organs and loud litanies. Into his hands he 

101 


102 


SANDALPHON. 



SANDALPHON. 


SANDALPHON. 


103 


gathers all prayers and praises — those of the broken-hearted 
and of the joyous, those of the sick and of the well, those of 
the young and of the aged; — prayers from people of all lands 
and in every station of life change into flowers as the angel 
touches them, flowers that he weaves into fragrant garlands 
whose perfume is wafted through the streets of the Eternal City, 
even unto the Throne of God. 

Thus no matter how feebly one prays, how erringly, or how 
haltingly, all prayers and all praise are beautiful when they 
reach the Father of All. 



MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 


A MAIDEN stood in the village street and looked longingly at 
the gilt weathercock which glistened and shone high up 
on the church spire. Her lover was on his 
way home from distant lands and she was 
wondering when he would arrive. She wished 
that she could see ’way off like the weather- 
cock; then, perhaps she might catch a 
glimpse of his vessel and might see him on 
its deck. 

So she spoke to the weathercock whispering 
softly so that the people in the street might 

not hear her. The wind carried her words 
to the weathercock and it was good- 
natured enough to reply. 

Said the maiden: “O beautiful golden 
weathercock, shining in the sun, how far 
can you see from your high perch, Vay 
above the church tower?” 

Said the weathercock; “ I can seethe roofs 
and the streets below in the village and 
the people coming and going about their 
errands. I am interested in what they 
are doing, although they do not think so. 
Beyond the village I can see the great 
salt ocean and the fisherman’s smacks; 
her words. and I can see farther than that beyond 
the harbor, clear to where the sky meets the sea. To- 
day there is great ship coming toward the land and on 

105 





106 


MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 


her deck is a fine-looking young man all browned by the sun and 
ruddy with health; he cannot take his eyes from the shore, ” 

“0, tell me what he looks 
like, kind weathercock, ” said the 
maiden. 

“He is tall and has broad 
shoulders and his hair is 
browner than his cheeks. He 
has a silken kerchief round his 
neck and he is raising it to his 
lips,” replied the weathercock. 

“ 0, what color is the kerchief , 
good weathercock?’ ’ 

“It is as blue as your eyes,” 
answered the weathercock 
gallantly. 

“It is he, it is he!” cried the 
maiden, clapping her hands. 
‘ 1 That is just what he said when 
I gave it to him.” 

“He is kissing his hand and 
the wind is wafting his kisses 
straight to shore,” continued 
the weathercock. 

“It is my lover, fond and 
true,” said the maiden, and the wind is bringing him back 
to me.” 

“How can you be so sure?’ ’ asked the weathercock. “There 
are other maidens with blue eyes and other lovers with blue 
kerchiefs.” 



ALL BROWNED BY THE SUN. 


MAIDEN AND WEATHERCOCK. 


107 


“I know it is he/’ replied the maiden. “You have told 
me exactly how he looks; there cannot be another man just 
like him. As for other maidens, I am willing to take my 
chance, although he has been gone so long. He does not 
change with the wind like you ; he is always the same. ’ ’ 

“ If I change with the wind I do it because that is what I am 
expected to do. People would think it mighty queer if I, a 
weathercock, should not change. How could your lover trim 
his sails to the wind if we weathercocks did not show how it 
blows? If everything in this world stood still nothing would 
ever get along,” and the weathercock proceeded to deliver a 
dissertation on his merits. 

The maiden did not stay to listen; she was running home as 
fast as she could, to get her small brother to go with her to the 
wharf where she might meet her lover when his ship came in. 

The good-natured weathercock forgave her and when she 
and her lover met he considerately turned his back on them. 

“She will thank me now for looking the other way, ’ ’ he said 
to himself. 

But the maiden did not think of the weathercock. She was 
taken up with her own happiness. Her lover had come, and 
she had no longer need of its services to watch the ships come 
in. 




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THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


T HE Round Tower at Newport, which was there when the 
English settled the country, puzzled and perplexed anti- 



I WAS A VIKING OF OLD. 


quarians for years. Nothing definite was agreed upon about it 
except that it had not been built by the Indians. Recently, 
the finding of an old Norse manuscript proved that America 
was discovered by the Vikings and that Lief Ericson explored 
the shores of New England long before Christopher Columbus 
landed on San Salvador. 


109 


110 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


During Longfellow’s lifetime a skeleton in rusty and broken 
armor was dug up at Fall River and he felt sure that it was that 
of a Viking. The poet made the old skeleton tell his story . 

“I was a Viking of old and I did many mighty things. Yet 
no bard sang of my valor, no historian wrote of my deeds. I 
will tell my whole life to you, if only you will put it in a poem. 

I was born in the far Northern Land, by the Baltic Sea. I 
tamed hunting hawks, and tracked the savage polar bear to 
his frozen den. I could skate on such thin ice that my whim- 
pering hound hardly dared to follow me. Those were glorious 
days when I, a fearless boy, learned to use the sword and the 
spear. In the dark night I hunted wolves, often returning 
home only when the larks were singing to the dawn. 

“When I was older I joined a sea-king’s crew and sailed 
the north seas with him and his men. We led a wild adven- 
turous life and were the terror of the rich French and English 
Saxons who were glad to pay us tribute to be let alone. Many 
were the men who fell by our swords and wherever we went 
we left death and weeping behind us. We were known as 
the scourge of the seas. 

“The best of all was when we came home from our voyages 
laden with spoils. Then we drank horns of ale filled to over- 
flowing and wished health and long life to one another. Bright 
eyes looked with wonder and shell-like ears grew pink as 
their fair owners listened to tales of our doughty deeds by sea 
and land. 

“Once as I was telling the story of a great sea fight in which 
I had been the hero, the brightest eyes of all gazed on me, 
burning and tender. The blue-eyed maid pierced my heart 
with her admiring glances and I, who had withstood all foe- 
men, fell a willing captive to beauty and grace. 


HET SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


* 111 



HE LAUGHED ME TO SCORN. 



112 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


“One day in the dark forest’s shade we plighted our vows. 
Then I went to old Hildebrand and asked him for his daughter. 
He laughed me to scorn and asked me how I, a common sea 
rover dared to aspire to the daughter of a prince who was 
already bethrothed to one of her own rank. 

“ He did not know me ; although he disdained me, she blushed 
and smiled. The white dove followed the sea-mew in its 
flight. That night she left her father’s castle to share the 
fortunes of the viking who had nought but his sword and his 
ship. 

“Hardly had we put to sea before we saw old Hildebrand 
and his men on the beach calling us to come back. We paid 
no heed and his ship followed us. We fled until she was close 
upon us, then turned suddenly and struck her amidships with 
the sharp prow of our vessel. The fierce, sudden blow clove 
her asunder and her crew were struggling in the water before 
they had time for defense. We stayed not to see who was 
saved or lost, but sailed on and on beyond pursuit. Even in 
Iceland we dared not stop; old Hildebrand’s cousin ruled 
the land. Passing south of Greenland, at last we came to the 
mouth of a large and beautiful river on whose shores the 
birds sang amid blossoming shrubs and grapes hung in clusters 
on branching vines. 

“There we landed and I built a lofty stone tower as a nest 
for my white dove. You may see it this very hour where it 
stands, looking seaward. 

“At first my bride pined for her home, and she could not re- 
alize that she was out of reach of her father’s wrath, but time 
dried her tears and lulled her anxiety. When our son was 
born we were doubly happy, but not for long. The boy sick- 


THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 


113 


ened and died and the mother followed. Then life became 
hateful to me. I had sent men and my ship off on a cruise. I 
was alone with my sorrow. Into the vast green forest I 



THE ROUND TOWER AT NEWPORT. 


walked until I felt sure that they could never find me. 
Dressed in all my armor, as became a sea-king, I fell upon* my 
spear and welcomed death, hoping for an eternity with my 
bride in the halls of Odin. 


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THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


T 7ICT0RIAN, a Spanish student of noble birth, but not at 

* all wealthy, was in love with a beautiful Gypsy dancer, 
Preciosa, and she returned his love and promised to marry 
him. 

Preciosa danced at the theatre in Madrid and all who saw 
her were charmed by her loveliness and grace. Among others, 
the Count of Lara was captivated by the fair dancer and re- 
solved to win her by fair means or by foul. Finding that 
Preciosa was true to Victorian, Lara determined to shake 
his faith in her. He set his servant, Francesco, to spy upon 
both Preciosa and Victorian, and, in the mean time, boasted 
openly that Preciosa was a flirt and that she had smiled on 
his suit, although it was not at all true. 

One day Francesco followed Victorian into a jeweler’s 
shop and saw him buy a ring which he concluded was meant 
for Preciosa. That evening the man told his master about 
it. The Count listened attentively. 

“ What is the ring like?” he inquired. 

“A golden serpent with a ruby* in its mouth,” answered 
Francesco. 

“ Was there another like it in the shop?” asked Lara. 

“Yes, my Lord, there was one so like it that I could not 
have told one from the other.” 

“That is good,” said the Count. “Bring that ring to me 
the first thing tomorrow morning. ” 

115 


116 THE SPANISH STUDENT. 

Francesco obeyed. The next day the Count had in his 
possession a ring exactly like the one that Victorian had put 
on the finger of Preciosa the evening before. 

Victorian could not see his 
sweetheart so often as he 
would have liked. His 
studies demanded his pres- 
ence in Alcala, which was 
quite a distance from Mad- 
rid. There he lived with 
his friend, Hipolito. When- 
ever he could get away from 
his books he would ride to 
Madrid and visit Preciosa for 
an hour or two and then 
hurry back to Alcala. When 
the lovers were together 
they never tired of talking 
about their love for each 
other and about their affairs 
— how they had met the 
first time, and how promptly each had fallen in love 
with the other. Preciosa had been betrothed, by her Gypsy 
father, to a favorite of his, Bartolome. She had never loved 
him, and from the day that she met Victorian the very thought 
of Bartolome grew hateful to her. She told him that she 
could not marry him and thus made him very angry. Beltran 
Cruzado, Preciosa’s father persuaded Bartolome to leave the 
girl alone for a while. All would come right in the end, he 
said, and, being leader of the Gypsies, he sent Bartolome 
away on an expedition. 



CRUZADO. 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


117 


In the meantime, Preciosa, who made a good deal of money 
by her dancing kept Cruzado supplied from her purse. It 
was small wonder that the man was in no haste for her to be 
married. 

One day, Cruzado came to Preciosa when she had no gold 
for him. She had just given away all that she had to a poor 
girl whose need was great. Cruzado refused to believe that 
Preciosa could not help him. 

“ Indeed, I have no money, ” said the dancer. “ I gave you 
some yesterday, and the rest I gave in charity today. ” 

“You gave away gold and not to me!” exclaimed the man, 
angrily. 

“To whom, then, did you give it?P 

“To some one who needed it more, ” answerpd Preciosa 

“No one can need it more than I. ” 

“You are not poor.” 

“What!” Not poor — I! I, who am worse housed than a 
galley slave, worse fed than a dog, and clothed in rags — I, 
Beltran Cruzado!” 

This was not true, but Cruzado was trying to work on Pre- 
ciosa’s feelings. 

“As long as I had money,” answered Preciosa firmly, “I 
gave it to you whenever you asked for it. Now that I have 
none I cannot give it to you. Be patient and merciful. Soon 
you shall have some more. ” 

“If I do not have it soon,” said Cruzado, frowning, “you 
shall not stay here in this comfortable house, wearing silken 
dresses and fed on dainty food , you shall go with me and dance 
in the public streets, and wander wild over fields and woods. 
We are not going to stay in Madrid long, and you shall leave 
it with us.” 


118 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


* ‘ What ! Are you going to march again ? ’ ' 

“Yes, and soon. I hate the crowded town. I cannot breathe 
shut up in the city. I want air, and sunshine, and blue sky. 
With no walls around me but the distant mountains, with grass 
under my feet and breezes fanning my cheeks, I feel strong and 
free. Then I am myself, Beltran Cruzado, Count of the Cales.’ \ 
“God speed you on your march — I cannot go.” 

“It is not for you to decide. You must be silent and obey. 
If you do not, there is Bartolome Roman — ” 

“ 0, no! I beseech you not to force me to marry that man. 
I do not love him ! I am afraid of him! If you have one kind 
feeling toward me — if you remember my mother and in any 
way I remind you of her, if only by a single look or tone, have 
pity on me. On. my knees I beg you not to do in haste what 
can never be undone. ’ ’ 

“Oh, child, child,” answered Cruzado, “you have betrayed 
what you would have hidden. Now I know what I had sus- 
pected. You love another. I will not leave you here to marry 
I know not who. Get ready to go with us. You shall leave the 
city. Remember, always, that I am watching you. ’ ’ 

Her father left the room. Preciosa’s heart was heavy, but 
she had no time to waste in indulging her grief ; she was called to 
dance, and in spite of her troubles she acquitted herself better 
than she had ever done before, winning enthusiastic applause. 

That evening Hypolito was in Madrid. He had come to see 
Don Carlos, a kindly gentleman of that city. They were talk- 
ing together about Victorian’s love affair when Victorian ap- 
peared. Don Carlos had just told Hypolito that the Count of 
Lara boasted that Preciosa was in love with him, and Hypolito 
repeated the gossip to his friend. This made Victorian very 
angry. Said he: 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


119 



PRECIOSA 


120 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


“I will cut the Count of Lara’s lying tongue out of his throat 
He knows it is not true. He cannot have said it. You are jok- 
ing. But joke no more in that vein. I will not have a word 
said against Preciosa. Such j okes spoil friendship. F are well. ’ ’ 

Hypolito laughed at Victorian’s ill-humor and Don Carlos, 
also, was quite ready to pardon the hot-headed lover. They 
joined a merry group in the public square and soon forgot all 
affairs but their own. 

Alas, poison had entered Victorian’s mind. He went on his 
way to Preciosa ’s ill-prepared for what he was to see there. 

Preciosa sat in her reception-room surrounded by flowers. 
Her bird sang gayly in his cage, but his mistress was sad and 
lonely. She wished for Victorian, but he did not come. She 
tried to read, but her book did not banish sorrowful thoughts. 
Over and again she wished for Victorian. But still he did not 
come. At last she called her maid. 

“ Dolores!” 

Dolores had slipped out, leaving the doors open, and through 
them the Count of Lara entered unperceived. He stood behind 
Preciosa, watching her. As Dolores did not answer, her mis- 
tress turned to arise and saw the count. 

“Kind lady, pardon me,” he said. 

“How is this?” cried Preciosa. “Dolores,” she called, 
“come at once.” 

“Do not be alarmed,” said Lara, “I found no one in waiting 
and so came in. I hope I have not been too bold. ’ ’ 

“You are too bold,” answered Preciosa, who did not like the 
count at all. “Go and leave me.” 

“Let me stay a while, I pray, my dear lady. I have some- 
thing to tell you. ’ ’ 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


121 


“No, I do not care to hear you. I have heard of your wicked 
deeds; they are enough to make your ancestors’ marble statues 
blush on their tombs Go at once. ’ ’ 

But the count would not go. He fell on his knees protesting 
vehemently that he loved Preciosa and bent to kiss her hand. 

It was just then that Victorian arrived. He could scarcely 
believe his eves. Preciosa had told him that she could not bear 
the Count of Lara and that she never received visits from him, 
yet here was Lara on his knees swearing that he loved Preciosa, 
who was listening with scarlet cheeks. Victorian rushed for- 
ward. 

“Stop, stop,” he cried. “What means this outrage?” 

“What right have you to question a nobleman of Spain?” de- 
manded Lara. 

“I too am noble,” answered Victorian, haughtily. “Out of 
my sight. ’ ’ 

“Are you the master here?” 

“Yes, here and anywhere else when wrong is to be pre- 
vented.” 

“Go,” said Preciosa, finding her voice. “Go at once, I be- 
seech you, go.” 

The count yielded to her entreaty and left. As he went Vic- 
torian said, “ I shall have business with you, Count, anon.” 

“ You cannot come too soon,” replied Lara. 

When they found themselves alone, Preciosa turned to Vic- 
torian, sure of his sympathy and his trust. But Victorian was 
angry and quite changed toward her. 

“What is it?” cried Preciosa anxiously. 

“Is it thus that you are entertained while I am not here? 
Do you who are engaged to me, listen to the suit of others? 
asked Victorian angrily. 


122 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


“ 0 do not speak to me in that tone, ” said Preciosa. “ Surely 
you know that the presence of that man is hateful to me. ” 



“STOP, STOP,” HE CRIED, “WHAT MEANS THIS OUTRAGE?” 


“ Yet he was on his knees before you, and you stood and al- 
lowed him to tell his love. ” 

“ I could not help it. I did not listen willingly. ” 

“ Indeed, you did. ” 

“0, do not speak so angrily, ” pleaded Preciosa. “ Surely 
you can understand that it was not my fault. ” 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


123 


“I am not angry. I am very calm, ” answered Victorian. 
“ Give me back my ring. It is not on your hand. Where 
is it?” 


Tin my jewel-casket. ” 



“Then let it stay there. I do not want it or you.” 

And so Victorian left. 

Victorian challenged the Count to a duel. They fought at a 
retired spot beyond the city gates and Victorian disarmed 
Lara. He might have pierced him with his sword but he 
generously spared his life. 

The Count of Lara pretended to entertain friendly feelings 
toward Victorian, after that, but he was still intent upon mis- 
chief. He showed Victorian the ring which Francisco had 
bought at the shop from which Preciosa’s had been bought 
and said that Preciosa had given it to him. Unhappy Vic- 



124 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


torian examined the ring and thought that it was, indeed, 
the same. Thereupon he threw it upon the ground crying: 

“Thus do I spurn her who had the ring! Tonight I leave 
this hateful town forever. Farewell, Sir Count, from hence- 
forth look on me as your friend. ” 

The Count of Lara felt well pleased. He thought that now 
that Victorian was out of the way he could easily win Pre- 
ciosa. She might need a little more humbling. Well, he 
had provided for that. That night he filled the theatre with 
his friends and with men in his employ and had the favorite 
dancer hissed so loudly and persistently that she faltered in 
her dance and, at last, quite overcome, fainted. 

The same night Bartolome returned from his expedition 
longing to see Preciosa. He got Cruzado to show him where 
she lived. The Gypsy leader did so but told Bartolome that 
he would not find the girl at home for she was dancing at the 
play. 

In the meantime Preciosa had been carried home. The 
Count of Lara thought that it would be a good time to go to 
see her. Alone and sorrowful she might be glad to hear from 
one who loved her. Bartolome, watching the house, saw 
Lara and Francisco vault over the wall, for the gate was 
locked. He followed feeling that the men meant to harm his 
beloved. At Preciosa’s door he stabbed the Count of Lara. 

Wandering in the country, it was some time before Vic- 
torian heard what had happened in Madrid. He and Hypo- 
lito were in the village of Guadarrama when a letter from the 
capital found Victorian. Dying, the Count of Lara had con- 
fessed how he had tried to harm Victorian and Preciosa. 
Hissed from the stage, the Gypsy dancer had fled with her 
people and was now wandering from place to place, really in 


THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


125 


danger, for there had been published an act of banishment 
against the gypsies. Victorian tvas traveling with Hypolito 
because he wished to do so, but poor Preciosa was traveling 
because she had been driven from her home. Terrible was 
the edict that had been issued by the king. 

“ I hereby order and command, 

That the Egyptian and Chaldean strangers, 

Known by the name of Gypsies, shall henceforth 
Be banished from the realm, as vagabonds 
And beggars; and if, after seventy days, 

Any be found within our kingdom’s bounds, 

They shall receive a hundred lashes each; 

The second time, shall have their ears cut off ; 

The third, be slaves for life to him who takes them, 

Or burnt as heretics. Signed, I the king.” 

On questioning the people of the town, Victorian found that 
there was a Gypsy camp just outside of Guadarrama and that 
with the outlaws was a pale and beautiful girl whom he thought 
must be Preciosa. 

That night he and Hypolito sought the camp. Preciosa 
was there. Bartolome had just left her. For days he had 
been hiding in the mountains for there was. a price on his head 
for the murder of the Count of Lara. At last he had left 
his retreat and had come to urge Preciosa to fly from Spain 
with him. She would not listen to him. She was still faith- 
ful to Victorian. 

When Victorian drew near, Preciosa was alone -with her sad 
thoughts, walking up and down in the forest in the dim light of 
the camp fire. 


126 


THE SPANISH STUDENT 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 


127 


“ It is she,’ ’ Victorian whispered joyfully to Hypolito. “ Is 
she not beautiful? I pray you, leave us alone.’ ’ 

Hypolito obliging withdrew into the shadow of the trees, and 
Victorian approached Preciosa and addressed her in a disguised 
voice. In spite of the darkness and the disguise the girl knew 
her lover at once. She trembled with emotion, but managed 
to appear calm.” 

“Who calls?’ ’ said she. 

“ A friend,’ ’ answered Victorian. 

“Thank heaven,” thought Preciosa, “it is he. My prayers 
have been heard and he has come to protect me.’ ’ Aloud she 
said, “ Is it a false friend or a true?’ ’ 

“A true friend to one who is true,” answered Victorian. 
“Can you tell fortunes?’ ’ 

“ Not in the dark,’ ’ said Preciosa. “Come to the fire that I 
may see your hand.’ ’ 

Victorian put a piece of gold in the girl’s hand and she pre- 
tended to scan the lines in his. They could not keep up the 
pretty farce. Soon Victorian had discovered himself to her and 
they were going over what had happened and rejoicing in being 
together once more. Victorian begged his sweetheart’s pardon 
very humbly for his lack of confidence in her, and Preciosa 
gladly granted forgiveness. At last Hypolito joined them and 
was courteously welcomed by Preciosa. 

The happy party was interrupted by Don Carlos and his serv- 
ant. They were seeking Preciosa with glad news. It had 
been learned that she was not a Gypsy, but the daughter of a 
wealthy gentleman who had just returned to Spain after a long 
absence. Proofs were not wanting to this strange story, for an 
old hag had confessed that she had stolen Preciosa when a baby 
and given her to Beltran Cruzado. 










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AZRAEL. 


QNE evening the great King Solomon was walking before his 
palace gate with a stranger from the east, who was 
dressed in gorgeous robes of purple and fine linen. Kings and 
Queens came from all parts of the known world to see King 
Solomon, to listen to his words of wisdom, to ask him ques- 
tions which no one else could answer, and to admire the treas- 
ures which he had gathered from all lands. 

His present visitor was the mighty Runjeet-Sing, Rajah of 
Hindostan, a scholar and a sage, whose wisdom even Solomon 
recognized. 

Hindostan was many hundreds of miles from Jerusalem, and 
it had taken Runjeet-Sing weeks to cross the leagues of burning 
desert and steep mountains that lay between Delhi and Jeru- 
salem. 

As the two rulers walked and talked together in the twilight, 
Runjeet-Sing saw a misty white figure hovering above and in 
front of them. The shape was gazing intently at the Rajah, 
as though it were trying to recognize his features through the 
dim light. The learned man felt uneasy under the fixed gaze, 
although he was accustomed to unusual occurrences and strange 
sights. He turned to Solomon, the all- wise, and said : 

“ What is that shape, like a ghost, which is looking at me as 
if it were astonished to see me here?' ' 

King Solomon, to whom God had given power over all the 
spirits of the air, answered : 

129 


130 


AZRAEL. 


“That is the angel known as Azrael, the mighty Angel of 
Death. Are you afraid of him?’ ’ 

The visitor replied with trembling lips and look of terror : 

“Yes, I dread lest he should come near and call me from the 
earth where I have much to learn and much yet to do. I dread 
lest he come and speak to me and take away my breath. Great 
King, who can command the wind and it will obey you, save 
me from the awful Death Angel. Call the west wind and bid 
it bear me upon its wings back to Hindostan, away from Azrael 
and out of his sight.’ ’ 

King Solomon looked up at the blue sky, where the stars 
shone brightly, with never a cloud to hide one of them ; raised 
his hand to heaven, and whispered something which the Rajah 
could not hear. The signet-ring on the King’s finger blazed 
like a star and suddenly a great wind came rushing from the 
west. Lifting the Rajah from the earth it bore him on its 
wings. His long silken garments floated behind him on the blast 
like a purple banner, which gleamed for a moment above the 
walls of the city and then disappeared in the distance. 

The Angel Azrael smiled solemnly at King Solomon. 

“Thou hast done well, 0, Solomon, favored of the Almighty. 
If this man be Runjeet-Sing of Hindostan, thou hast done the 
will of God in calling the powers of the air to grant his request. 
I was on my way to seek him in his palace in Delhi. While he 
was here he was safe from my summons ; now I shall find him in 
the place in which it is appointed for him to die.’ ’ 


AZRAEL. 


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THE HAPPIEST LAND 



‘OUR strong and brave men sat together, one day, at an 


ale-house in Germany, on the banks of the beautiful Rhine. 
Each one came from a different part of their Fatherland. 
There were a Swabian forester, a Saxon merchant from Dres- 
den, a gypsy from Bohemia, and a hunter from the Tyrol. 

The landlord’s daughter filled their glasses. Her long 
flaxen braids fell nearly to the hem of her dress, her eyes were 
blue, and her face was fair. She was as gentle and as good as 
she was beautiful. While she was in the room the men talked 
in low tones. Her presence seemed to lend peace and calm 
to the group but as soon as she was gone they fell to boasting. 

“ Long live Swabia! ” cried the forester. “ She is the greatest 
land upon earth; no kingdom can compare with her. Her 
stout and hardy men are renowned for their bravery, and they 
have made a splendid history for their land. As soldiers and 
as statesmen they have compelled the admiration of the 
world. Her women are fair and good and they bring up 
tall and courageous sons and beautiful and virtuous daughters. 
In Swabia the forests are grand and through their green aisles 
roam troops of antlered deer and in their dark recesses lurks 
the savage boar, the favorite game of kings and princes. I 
drink to Swabia, the finest country in all the world, bar none! ” 
Raising his glass to his lips, the Swabian drained it to the 
dregs. 


133 


134 


THE HAPPIEST LAND. 


“ Hold, ” cried the Tyrolean. “ Do you dare to tell me that 
hunting the wild boar and the stag can be compared to the 
pursuit of the chamois — the nimble-footed chamois that 
climbs to the highest peaks of the Alps? I tell you the beard 
of a chamois is a decoration as hard to gain as that of the Iron 
Cross/’ and, picking up his hat from the table, where it lay 
at his elbow, he held it aloft that all might see the beard 
which was fastened against the crown. “I risked my life 
a dozen times'before I won that,” he said “It was not for 
nothing that I was made chief huntsman to the prince. There 
is no such air as that of the Tyrolean mountains. A Tyrolean 
cannot breathe freely in any other and he dies if exiled. Go 
where you will you may find emigrants from every other 
country, but none from Tyrol. God bless her. I drink to 
Tyrol, the happiest land. ” And he, also, drank a solitary 
toast to the land of his love. 

“Bah,” said the Saxon merchant, stout and well-fed-look- 
ing, leaning back in his chair. “You talk as though hunting 
wild beasts, and climbing mountains, and roaming in forests 
were all the chief end and aim of life of man’s existence. For 
myself, I like civilization. Why, the very wine you are drink- 
ing today is from Saxony. There we have all which to my 
mind really makes life pleasant; not only fair women, but 
rich stuffs in which to dress them, and golden ornaments to set 
off their beauty; not only strong men, but work for them 
which brings good to the whole world. The fruit of our looms, 
of our mines, and our factories has carried the fame of the 
Fatherland to distant countries which have never heard of 
your wild boars and your chamois. Nay, friends be just, and 
pledge me Saxony in our Saxon wine— Saxony, the land 


THE HAPPIEST LAND. 


135 


where nature has been most bountiful and man has made the 
most of her gifts. ” 

Raising his hand, the merchant showed the silken lining of 
his sleeve as he drank to his prosperous country. 



FOUR STRONG AND BRAVE MEN. 

“ Pshaw, labor, even though it brings wealth, is the curse of 
man life, not his joy , ” cried the Bohemian. “Your factories 
and your mines are prisons. In Bohemia, all are free, and 
we live to be happy, neither to kill nor to be killed. We sing 
at our work; the tailor blows the flute, the cobbler blows 
the horn; even the miner has his bugle; and when our tasks 
are done we dance and play together. Hold your tongues, all 
of you. The land of happiness is Bohemia. Say that we 
are content with little — what matters it? We are content. 
You, ” — here he nodded to the Tyrolean — “you kill your 
chamois today, there is another on the heights tomorrow; 
you,” — to the Swabian — “you hunt your wild boar, but sup- 
pose he turns and rends you? Then you are a cripple and 


136 


THE HAPPIEST LAND. 


can hunt no more. Will your beautiful maiden smile on you 
then? You, ” — to the Saxon — ‘‘you build fine houses and 
amass money, but, however much you have, will you not want 
more? Ah, yes, in Bohemia we are truly happy.” 

Quarrelling followed these boasts. Each man tried to make 
good his claim that his land was the happiest. At last, swords 
were drawn; the four men were angry. 

Quietly the landlord's daughter had entered the room and 
divined the cause of the excitement. 

She raised her hand to Heaven. “Peace,” sh6 said. “Con- 
tend no more. There lies the happiest land. 


CARMILHAN. 


T HE good ship Valdemarlay at anchor with in the sandy bar 
at Stralsund by the Baltic Sea. She was all ready to sail 
and was awaiting a favorable wind. The light of the setting 
sun streamed through her cabin windows in golden ripples. 



It was near the close of a peaceful summer day, but within 
the cabin the captain and his friends were talking of icebergs 
and of fogs, of storms and of gales, and were spinning strange 
yarns of the sea. 

The cabin boy passed to and fro waiting on the captain and 
his guests, who were smoking and drinking their grog as they 

137 


138 


CARMILHAN. 


talked. He was a country boy who had never been to sea, but 
who was eager to travel and to see the world. In his quiet cot- 
tage home he had dreamed of visiting foreign lands and seeking 
his fortune, and when his dear mother had died and he had 
found himself quite alone, he had packed up his bundle and 
come to Stralsund. He was very happy because he had been 
shipped as cabin boy on the Valdemar. He was determined to 
do his duty and to be the best cabin boy possible. His mother 
had brought him up piously, and he trusted in God. 

The stories of the captain’s friends were so weird that they 
aim ost took the lad’s breath away. Presently a jolly skipper 
began to tell about Klaboterman, the Kobo Id of the sea, a 
lively spright who is the sailor’s friend and torment. Even 
before the ship sails Klaboterman helps with the work, stowing 
away bales and casks, hoisting and reefing sails and heaving the 
anchor. He makes a good deal of noise as he runs over the 
rigging, but no one can see him. The industrious tar is glad of 
his company and his help, but woe to the idler! Klaboterman 
delights in worrying and teasing lazy sailors; he pinches them 
black and blue and hinders them in their tasks. One had best 
do right when Klaboterman is on board. 

‘ ' Does no one ever see Klaboterman?’ ’ asked one of the listen- 
ers. 

The cabin boy paused for the answer. 

“ Best not,” said the skipper, shaking his gray head solemnly. 
“ Best not, for to see Klaboterman is a sign of certain death!” 

There was a silence and the cabin boy felt his blood run cold. 

“There is a spectre ship called the Carmilhan,” the man, who 
had told about Klaboterman, said, after a while. “It is a ship 
of the dead and is sailed by ghosts. She has not a rag of sail, 
yet she can go where she pleases, whether with the wind, or 


CARMILHAN. 


139 


against the wind, makes no difference to the Carmilhan. She 
haunts the Atlantic Ocean and is seen oftenest in mid-ocean 
near the Three Chimneys.” 

The captain of the Valdemar laughed. “ 1 should like to see 
the Three Chimneys on any chart / ' he said. 

“They are three rocks that rise bleak and bare from the sea 
and they look just like furnace chimneys. That is why they 
are called the Three Chimneys. Woe betide the luckless ship 
that meets the Carmilhan, for as sure as she does, she must go 
down into the deep, and every living thing on board, every be- 
ing from mouse to man will perish / ' 

The captain of the Valdermar laughed scronfully and pointed 
to his chart. 

“ I have sailed right over the place of your Three Chimneys,” 
he said. “You can see the course on my chart, by these pin- 
holes. The sky was blue, the sea was smooth, and I did not find 
a single rock / 1 

“ 111 betide the ship that meets the Carmilhan or the man who 
sees the Three Chimneys ' ' replied the narrator so gravely that 
the cabin boy shudderd. But the captain of the Yaldemar 
swore a dreadful oath 

“If ever I meet the Carmilhan it will be the worse for her, 
not for me/’ he cried, “I will run her down! I will run her 
down, even though I run her right into eternity V ’ 

The sun was nearly set, and the cabin windows no longer 
shone with red and gold. The ship tugged at her anchor, eager 
to be off. 

“It is the wind that makes her swing so / ' said the captain's 
guests. It freshens fast. It is time for us to go / ' 

“Farewell! Good luck!" they cried, shaking the captain's 
hand. 


140 


CARMILHAN. 


One by one the visitors went over the vessel’s side. The 
southwest wind blew fresh and fair. The sailors heaved the 
anchor (with Klaboterman to help!) and with all sails set the 
Valdemar went over the bar and proudly out to sea. She was 
bound for Odessa, in Russia, on the Black Sea. 

The sun went down and the full moon rose . Lights appeared 
in the fishing villages along the sandy coast, and were left far 
behind by the Valdemar When dawn came there was no land 
in sight; then sandy hills came into view and the ship sailed 
through the Sound, between Sweden and Denmark. Fair 
winds and smooth waters took her through Kattegat and Skager- 
rack like a bird on wing and then into the North Sea and 
through the rough English Channel, across the Bay of Biscay, 
past Cape Finisterre,into the broad Atlantic Ocean. Suns 
rose and set, and yet there was no land in sight. The full moon 
waned to a crescent and the nights were dark except for the 
stars. 

So far all was well. 

There came an evening when the sun set behind a jagged mass 
of threatening clouds. The afterglow was pink, but when it 
had faded, the sky grew black, all black. The darkness was as 
dense as the plague in Egypt. Everything was still and the 
Valdemar ’s crew felt a dread of they knew not what. 

The captain strode up and down the deck, watching the com- 
pass and lifting up his hand with a wet forefinger to see which 
way the wind was. He looked up at the sails and down at the 
water anxiously. The wind was hidden now, but he knew that 
when it came it would bring a tempest. He felt the gathering 
of the storm in every fibre of his being. 

Eight bells! It was midnight. The hurricane came with a 
rush; the wind roared and the rain descended; the ship reeled 


CARMILHAN. 141 

and staggered under the shock; and the ocean was white with 
foam. 

Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud and rent the darkness, 
then all was black again. In the awful glare the captain had 
beheld a fearful sight. Right ahead of the Valdemar lay the 
spectre ship, the vessel of the dead, the ghostly Carmilhan ! 

Her masts and yards were bare, and looked like a grim skel- 
eton. Her crew of ghosts was on the deck or climbing up the 
shrouds, but most terrible of all, right on her bowsprit, poised 
in air, sat Klaboterman! 

Close behind the Carmilhan rose the Three Chimneys, straight 
and bare. At last the captain had seen them. He did not need 
to drive his ship into the Carmilhan. The Valdemarleaped 
into the dark. All on board shuddered as she passed through a 
denser mist and a colder blast; she went right through the 
spectre ship. 

The lightning flashed again and a second time those on board 
saw the Carmilhan, but now she was behind them, whole 
and entire, although the Valdemar had cleft her in two. But 
Klaboterman was no longer on the death ship; he was on the 
Valdemar. 

The sailors knew that death was near. Some prayed, some 
wept, some swore, and some were silent with fear. 

Suddenly the shock came. The Valdemar crashed against 
the Three Chimneys and went to pieces. Every soul on board 
was drowned except the cabin boy. 

Klaboterman had seen the Bible in the lad's chest and had 
noticed that he read it every day, as he had promised his dead 
mother that he would do. So the sprite had made a sign on the 
boy's breast to save him from harm. 


142 


CARMILHAN. 



THE CARMILHAN. 


CARMILHAN. 143 

The morning after the wreck the cabin boy was picked up at 



HE WAS CLINGING TO A SPAR. 


sea. He was clinging to a spar. Only he survived the wreck 
and lived to tell the tale of the Valdemar and the Carmilhan. 





THE BELL OF ATRI, 


TT'ING JOHN of Atri had a great bell hung in the market- 
place of the town and had it protected from the sun and 
rain by a small roof which was large enough to afford shelter to 
passers-by. Then the king rode through the streets attended by 
his train of followers and accompanied by a herald who pro- 
claimed with many a loud trumpet blast that whenever wrong 
was done to any man, high or low, he need but ring the bell to 
have his case attended to and the wrong righted. Such was 
the decree of King John, who wished to have no injustice in his 
kingdom. 

Atri was a small town, very ancient, but of little fame. It 
was built with long straggling streets and walled gardens, on a 
sunny hillside in Italy. It was a quiet town, and perhaps 
there were not many wrongs to be righted, for when the bell- 
rope became worn and short no one thought to replace it until 
one day a passerby who had been driven under the little roof 
by a sudden shower happened to piece it with a braid made of 
vines on which the leaves still hung. 

In Atri there lived a knight who in his youth had been very 
fond of the chase, hunting wild boars and flying his hawks. 
He had kept fine horses and noble hounds and had enjoyed 
them, too, but now that he was grown old, he cared for little but 
his money-bags and hoarded gold like a miser. He sold his 
horses and his hounds and his hawks and rented out his gardens 

145 


146 


THE BELL OF ATRI. 


and his vineyards, ever planning to make and to save money. 
One horse alone he kept, for, on state occasions, it was his duty 
to ride after the king, in his processions. He was, with King 
John when the proclamation about the bell was made, but he 
soon forgot all about it. 

The poor old horse had served the knight well, but his master 
grudged him his keep. 

“The beast is eating his head off in the stable/ ' he said to 
his servants. “ He does not earn the worth of a bundle of hay 
in a year. Turn him out into the streets and let him shift for 
himself. Then at least he will be no further expense/ ' 

The summer was hot and dry and herbage was scanty and 
hard to find. The horse wandered about the lanes and by-ways 
cropping dusty weeds and catching at branches of trees that 
hung within his reach. Boys threw pebbles at him and dogs 
barked at his heels. Sometimes briars and thorns scratched 
and tore him as he tried to make a meal on forbidding vines and 
bushes. 

In warm countries nearly every one takes a nap during the hot 
afternoon hours, prefering the cooler mornings for work and 
the pleasant evenings for visiting and recreation. One after- 
noon the people of Atri were all asleep, and not a soul was to be 
seen on the street except, perhaps, a beggar dozing in the shade 
of a great tree. 

Suddenly King John's bell rang a loud alarm, waking every 
one. The judge started sleepily from his couch and listened. 
The bell rang again, and it had to be obeyed. Reluctaiitly, 
he put on his robes and went out in the sun, panting with the 
heat and his exertions. The great bell tolled persistently as 
though to say, over and over again, “Some one has done, has 
done a wrong, has done a wrong!' ' 


THE BELL OF ATRI. 


147 



When the judge reached the market-place and saw who had 
set the bell to ringing he was astonished. It was neither man, 
woman nor child, but a poor, forlorn old 
horse who was tugging away at the 
rope. 

“Why!” cried the judge, “this is 
the knight of Atri’s steed of state calling 
for justice as loudly as any one. It 
seems to be in great distress. Never 
the bell of atri. have I seen so thin a horse.’ ’ 

It was so. 

Attracted by the withered 
leaves still clinging to the vines 
which had been used to mend 
the bell-rope, the half-starved 
horse had appealed for justice 
unknowingly. 

Besides the judge a crowd of 
people from nearly every house 
in town answered the summons. 

They all knew the horse and 
told his story to the judge with 
great excitement, interrupting 
one another in their zeal. It 
was a shame; the animal had 
done the knight good service, 
had carried him for many years, 
and more than once had saved his life in battle — but now that it 
was old, it was turned out to starve. The knight had plenty of 
money, old miser! He could keep the horse well, if he chose. 
The judge needed no further urging to do his duty. He sent 



THE KNIGHT OF ATRI'S STEED. 


148 


THE BELL OF ATRI. 


for the knight and questioned him. The knight laughed and 
treated the matter as a joke, neither confessing nor denying 
his cruel neglect, but saying loftily that he had a right to treat 
his own horse as he pleased. 

“What honor, what reward can come to you for starving this 
poor brute !” asked the judge, gravely. “He has served you 
for many years, and deserves to be cared for now that he is old. 
His being dumb and unable to complain ought to make you 
all the more anxious to treat him fairly. But he has spoken; 
he has appealed for justice and justice he shall have. The law 
decrees that as this steed served you well in youth, therefore 
you shall take care of him in his old age and provide him with a 
comfortable stall, ample food and pasturage.” 

The knight left the market-place in silence. He felt abashed. 

The people led the horse home in triumph. Thenceforward 
he was properly housed and fed. 

The matter came to the king’s ears. He was amused and de- 
lighted. 

“The bell has justified its existence / * he said. “ Even dumb 
beasts profit by it, for it comes into court and pleads their 
cause. This event shall make the Bell of Atri famous for all 
time.” 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


T T was spring in the town of Killingworth. Robins and blue- 
^ birds sang in the blossoming orchards, sparrows chirped in 
the barnyards, catbirds gossiped to one another in the gardens' 



THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


and hungry crows cawed in the corn fields. All the birds of 
passage had come back from the south, and the woods and 
fields rang with their melodies. 

Strawberries were growing in the gardens, and the wealth of 
blossoms in the orchards gave promise of a heavy crop of fruit. 
Never had there seemed to be so many birds, and their chatter- 
ing, as well as their songs, attracted the attention of all the 

149 


150 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


town. The farmers in the neighborhood, as they tilled their 
fields, marked with alarm the crows, busy even before the corn 
was planted ; while in the town every man who owned a garden 
was in fear for His cherries and his grapes. 


“ The birds will eat us out of house and 
home// they declared with one accord. 
“They were bad. enough, last year, but 
now there arc twice as many / ’ 

So townspeople and farmers put their 
heads together and decided that the 
occasion was serious enough to warrant 
a town meeting. They shook their fists 
and vowed death and destruction to the 
whole race of birds from tomtit to eagle. 

All the dignitaries, as well as the lesser 
folk, came, to the town meeting. First 
there was the squire, who looked pompous 
and prosperous as he came forth from the 
door of his big white house — the largest 
house in town, with its- fluted columns 
and red roof — and descended the three 
flights of steps that led down the terraces to the street. As he 
walked along, holding his head high, he felt well satisfied 
with himself and enjoyed the deferential bows of the people. 

“ A town that boasts inhabitants like me 
Can have no lack of good society / * 



THE. SQUIRE. 


he thought complacently. . 

Indeed, he was very grand, for he wore a high-crowned beaver 
hat and carried a gold-headed cane. 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


151 


Next came the minister or the parson, as he was called. He 
was dressed in black broadcloth, and looked stern and forbid- 
ding, instead of gentle, as becomes a preacher 
of the gospel. He was fonder of preaching 
about the wrath of God than about the love of 
Christ, and some of his sermons were quite 
dreadful to hear. In his vacations he went 
hunting in the Adirondack Mountains, and his 
favorite pastime was killing deer. The birds 
need not look to him for mercy. Even as he 
walked down the green lane that led from the 
parsonage to the town hall, he struck at the 
wayside flowers and lopped off their heads with 
his cane. 

From the academy came the preceptor or 
village teacher. He was glad of a holiday, 
and enjoyed the lovely spring day, the sun- 
shine, the blue clouds, the green grass, the 
perfume of the flowers, and the songs of the 
birds. As he went to the meeting, he thought of Almira, one 
of his pupils, a maiden in the highest class. The preceptor 
admired her so much, that he had written a poem about her, 
saying that she was “ as pure as water and as good as bread.' ' 

After the preceptor, walked the deacon, dressed like the par- 
son, in a suit of black, but of lighter material, with a spotless 
white neck-cloth. His form was ponderous, he walked 
slowly, and with great dignity. The whole town was convinced 
* of his wisdom. No matter what happened, he was always 
ready to say, “ I told you so.' ' He was sure to be remembered 
long after he was dead, for a street in the town was named after 
him. 



152 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


All these men sat in the new town hall with the farmers and 
the plainer folk. The squire led the meeting. He was digni- 
fied and impressive, and every word that he said carried weight. 
It went hard with the birds ; they had scarcely a friend in the as- 
sembly. 

“They eat our cherries, they steal our corn, they ruin our 
gardens, they scratch up our seed, and they are a general nui- 
sance/ ’ said the farmers. “Even the crows have grown so 
bold that they help themselves to our corn under our very 
noses. Unless we can get rid of them in some way, we shall 
have no crops.’ ’ 

Each man spoke more bitterly than the one before until, at 
last, one would have thought on hearing them that the birds 
were monsters of crime. 

When they had ended the preceptor arose from his seat. He 
was trembling with nervous excitement, like a horse going into 
battle. He knew that he was one against them all, but he 
thought of the gentle Almira and determined to speak his mind. 
He had studied and read more than anyone present, even the 
parson; he had watched the birds building their nests and rear- 
ing their young; he knew their habits and how they fed; and, a 
musician himself, he rejoiced in their songs. 

“Friends,” he said earnestly, “you know not what you do. 
You would put to death the singers who make music for us all, 
soothing our dark hours as, long ago, David soothed Saul. You 
would kill the thrush that sings at dawn of day, from the highest 
branches of the piney woods ; the oriole that carols so sweetly in 
the elm; the chattering jay; the pleasant twittering linnet; the 
soaring lark that catches its melodies from heaven ; the tuneful 
bluebird, and all the feathered multitude that live in nests and 
have the gift of song! 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


153 


“You would kill them all! and why? To save a few handfuls 
of wheat or barley or some other grain which they will take from 
your fields. Take, not steal, for the industrious little creatures 
earn what they get, scratching up weevils and worms which 
would eat far more than they do. 

“What if they do peck at your cherries? They pay for them 
with songs. Is the fruit sweeter than their music? 

“Did you ever think who made the birds? who taught them 
to sing? They fly so high that they are much nearer heaven 
than we are and their melodies are sweeter far than any man can 
make. You would willingly pay a dollar or two for a ticket to 
a concert to hear a great singer or a musician, but you grudge 
the birds their reward for making music at your windows, for 
beginning your day with song. 

“Remember, every morning when the sun begins to rise, the 
happy feathered folk renew their concert, twittering and trilling 
their jubilant songs. You may be dispirited or out of sorts, but 
the birds are always cheerful, always glad. 

“Think of your woods and your orchards without birds ! 

“Will the bleat of your sheep and the lowing of your cattle 
make up for the lost music? Will the whir of the grasshopper 
and the cry of the katydid sound sweeter to your ears than the 
song of the lark and the twitter of little field-fares, as you take 
your nooning in the shade of bush and tree? Would you rather 
feed the caterpillar and the locust than the robin and the wren? 

“You call the birds thieves; but you ought to know that they 
are policemen who keep robbers away. They drive insects 
from your orchards and your gardens. Even the crow does 
you good service, fully worth the corn he takes, for he crushes 
the beetle and destroys snails and slugs. 


154 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


“Does not God care for the sparrows? How can I teach 
your children reverence and gentleness and mercy if you are 
cruel to thebirds?” 

The farmers laughed at the preceptor’s modest little speech, 
calling him a poet and a dreamer. They were men of affairs, 
they said, and had no time for sentiment. They must think of 
money and food, not of music and song. So they set a price on 
the heads of the birds, declaring that the sooner they were out 
of the way the better. 

A few tender-hearted women and children cried when they 
heard of the law passed by the town meeting and were grateful 
for the preceptor’s words when they read them in the papers. 
Almira thought the speech beautiful, and cut it out and put it in 
her album. She loved the birds and had fed them from her 
windows on many a snowy day. 

The killing began. Boys got out their shotguns in the hope 
of earning pennies, and men kept their rifles loaded. Parent 
birds died by the hundred of bloody wounds, while their babies 
starved in their nests. 

Alas, it did not take long to depopulate the trees. When 
summer came all the birds were dead. Never had there been 
such an uncomfortable summer. The days were hot, but 
there was no shade, for in gardens and orchards, woods and 
fields, crawling caterpillars and other worms devoured the 
leaves on every plant and tree. There were insects and worms 
everywhere, it seemed; they spoiled the favorite walks, falling 
down on passersby from branches and skeleton leaves. They 
ate up the vegetables and ruined the fruit. In vain , the farmers 
used every remedy known to them; weevils got into the grain 
and almost all their crops were worthless. Too late they real- 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 


155 


ized that they had made a mistake. They could repeal the law, 
and they did ; but they could not recall the birds to life. 

When autumn came it was very dreary. There were few 
leaves to turn to crimson and gold, and the scanty harvests did 
not pay for the gathering. The winds moaned and sighed over 
bare fields, as though bewailing the loss of the birds, and the 
farmers in their hearts regretted them, also. 

The next spring another town meeting was held, and it was 
decided that birds must be had. The country round was 
searched and birds caught and caged for Killingworth. One 
day a wagon decked with evergreens came into the town. From 
every branch was hung a wicker cage full of singing birds, whose 
music seemed the sweetest that the hearers had ever known. 
Freed from their prisons, the birds flew to woods and fields, 
choosing for their homes whatever places they liked best. No 
spot was too good for them, and nowhere were they molested. 
The townspeople who had been loudest in condemning the 
feathered folk, only a year before, now praised them heartily. 
Surely, birds never sang to a more appreciative audience . 1 

The next morning was the fair Almira’s wedding day, and she 
was married to the preceptor. The sun shone, the skies were 
blue, and spring was giving new leaves to the trees. The birds 
seemed to know that the preceptor and his bride were their 
friends, for they burst into loud and joyous songs, as though 
delighted to honor the gentle couple. 


156 


THE BIRDS OF KILLINGWORTH. 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 


TT was noon by the sun-dial in the convent garden. Within 
the convent a monk knelt on the stone floor of his cell and 
prayed earnestly that his sins might be forgiven him and that 
he might become more self-denying and firm to resist tempta- 
tion . He was a good and a pure man , but he was as humble as 
a little child, and each of his small faults seemed large to him. 
So he prayed long and fervently. 

Suddenly the narrow stone cell shone with a heavenly light 
which made its bare walls and its simple furniture seem as splen- 
did as gold and caused the monk to raise his bowed^ head in 
amazement. 

Before him was the blessed vision of our Lord wrapped in the 
glorious light as in a garment. From out the light. shone his 
beautiful face, tender and loving, just as it appeared to the dis- 
ciples in Galilee in those far-away days when Jesus went about 
on earth, healing the sick, restoring sight to the blind, and 
preaching the gospel to the poor. 

The monk gazed adoringly at the vision. He was filled with 
joy and wonder. 

“Dear Lord that reignest in heaven,” he thought, “dear 
Lord, who am I that Thou shouldst deign to show Thyself to 
me? Who am I that Thou shouldst leave the glory of Heaven 
to enter my poor cell? I am not worthy, Lord. Iam not wor- 
thy that Thou shouldst be my guest.” 

157 



THE MONK GAZED ADORINGLY AT THE VISION. 



THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 


159 


But soon he forgot himself entirely and thought only of the 
wonder of the Vision. With his hands crossed upon his bosom 
he worshipped and admired. 

Il the midst of his exaltation the convent bell rang to call 
him from his cell. 

“ Clang — clang !” 

It seemed to him that the bell had never rung so loud before. 
From its belfry it called through court and corridor summoning 
the monk to his daily duty of feeding the poor at the convent 
gate. Each day they came at the same hour — the blind, the 
lame, the sick, the helpless — to receive the food dealt out to 
them by the brotherhood, and it was his task to. see that they 
got it. Nothing was allowed to interrupt the alms-giving. In 
rain or sunshine, cold or heat, the poor people came to the con- 
vent gates, and, sick or well, the monk was there to minister to 
them. 

And now the monk was on his knees, wrapt in silent ecstasy, 
before the blessed Vision. And the bell called him to his com- 
mon duty. 

Surely that could wait, for he was kneeling before his Lord. 

Deep distress and hesitation filled the heart of the worshipper. 

Should he go or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to 
wait hungry at the convent gates until theVision was gone and 
he was at leisure to attend to them? Or should he slight his 
heavenly visitor for the crowd of ragged beggars that awaited 
his coming? 

If he left the Blessed Vision, would it come again? 

He could not tell. But conscience spoke to him as loudly as 
did the bell. 

“ Do thy duty ; that is best ; 

Leave unto thy Lord the rest.” 


160 THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL. 

He started to his feet and with a longing look at the Vision 
left the cell. 

The poor were awaiting at the gate. Even the moment that 
had gone by without bringing the monk had filled them with 
dread. They were used to being denied when they asked for 
aid. What if the monk should no longer have pity on them? 
Where could they turn for help? 

When the monk appeared they grew strangely satisfied. It 
was not only that he gave them bread and meat, but his very 
presence filled them with peace. 

In his heart the monk was praying for them. He thought of 
their sufferings and of their sins, and implored the Heavenly 
Father to heal and to forgive them. Once more he forgot him- 
self and was lost in holy thought. He raised his hand to bless 
the people. A voice seemed to speak to him in the words of 
Jesus : 

“ Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these 
my brethren, ye have done it unto Me.’ ’ 

“Unto Me!” 

How hard it was to remember that ! 

Absorbed in thought the monk hastened back to his cell. 
The whole convent seemed bright with miraculous light. Full 
of awe he paused on the threshold of his door. 

The Vision was still there. 

It had awaited his return, although he had been gone an hour. 

Again the monk fell on his knees. He was almost overcome 
with rapture and thankfulness. 

Then the Vision spoke * 

“Well done, good and faithful servant. Hadst thou neglected 
my brethren, I must have left thee.” 


KAMBALU. 


'T'HE Kalif of Balducca cared more for gold and silver and 
jewels than for anything else. He was a miser and loved his 
treasure for its own sake and not for what it would buy. So 
he built a tower in which to store it, and there he heaped and 
hoarded his wealth, and thither he crept to gloat over it. He 
had so many sacks of gold and silver that they were piled in 
the tower like sacks of wheat in a granary, and his jewels were 
so numerous that it took him hours to count them, but still he 
was not content. 

In order to add to his store the Kalif taxed his people until 
they cried out from hunger and he cut down his army until he 
had scarcely enough soldiers to guard his treasure. If he had 
been wiser and less grasping he would have fared better. 

One day the great captain Alau rode in the city of Kambalu 
at the head of a dusty caravan. His men and camels were laden 
with treasure from Baldacca, with the Kalif ’s sacks of gold and 
silver, with his caskets of jewels, and with even the swords and 
the shawls and gems that he had worn. 

And this is the story that Alau told the mighty Tartar Khan 
at whose feet he laid the spoils; it is strange but true. 

“ The enemies of my Lord are dead. All the Kalifs of all the 
West bow and obey thy slightest wish. The whole land is happy 
The weavers are busy making silk, the miners are sifting the 
sands for gold, and the divers are plunging in the seas for pearls. 
There is peace and plenty everywhere. 


162 


KAMBALU. 


“Baldacca’s Kalif, and he alone, refused to submit to thee. 
Here are his treasures, his swords, his shawls and his jewels. 
His body is dust and the wind blows it over the desert. So 
perish all that revolt against thee! 

“When I came within a mile of Baldacca’s gate I left my 
forces concealed behind trees and hillocks of sand and dashed 
forward with only a handful of men to tempt the Kalif s sol- 
diers outside the city walls. Before we reached the town we 
were seen, and the alarm was given. The gates swung wide 
open and out came the garrison with the gray old Kalif at their 
head. We had snared them all and entered the town in tri- 
umph. 

“As we rode in at the gate, we saw a tower that is called the 
Tower of Gold. There the Kalif had hidden all this wealth and 
thither he used to go to gaze at it and to handle it in secret. 

“ I said to the miser: Thou art old, and thou hast no need 
of so much treasure. Thou shouldst not have heaped and hid- 
den it here only to be taken from thee. Thou should have 
spent it for food for thy people, and for swords for thy soldiers. 
Of what use is all this gold to thee? Canst thou eat it? Canst 
thou drink it? Will it save thee from death V 

“The Kalif answered not a word. 

“ I locked him in his tower with the treasure all around him. 
It could not save him. When at last we unlocked the door we 
found him dead. He was still clutching his treasure and, as he 
lay stretched out on the sacks of gold and silver, so old and yel- 
low was he that he looked like a statute of gold with a silver 
beard. ’ ’ 


KAMBALU, 


163 



HE WAS STILL CLUTCHING HIS TREASURE. 






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THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 



,NE hot summer morning Ser Federigo sat on a rude bench 


in the shade of a beautiful grape-vine which grew near his 
cottage door. The little garden, in which he had worked that 
morning until weary; his vines, his fruit trees; and the humble 
cottage, in their midst, were all that were left to him of a large 
property which he had spent with a lavish hand in the hope of 
winning his lady love. 

From his seat, beneath the huge vine with its fragrant clus- 
ters of ripening fruit, Ser Federigo looked down on the lovely 
valley through which flowed the river Arno, and saw in the dis- 
tance, on the banks of the river, the city of Florence, called 
the Fair. 

To Ser Federigo, Florence was like a beautiful and costly mar- 
ble tomb. When he had left the city and had come to live on 
his small farm he had said farewell to youth, fortune, and love. 
It was as though they were all buried in Florence, he thought, 
every time he saw the spires and the roofs of that fair city, and 
he saw them many times a day, for his new home was on a hill- 
side looking down on the one of happier days. 

Ser Federigo had loved Monna Giovanna, a dark-eyed beauty 
who had had many suitors, chief among whom were Ser Federigo 
and a more favored one. These two had striven to outdo each 
other in every way and had given magnificent entertainments 
in the lady’s honor, but she had disdained Ser Federigo ’s offer- 
ings and had accepted his rival and become his bride. Her 


165 


166 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


lovely face still haunted the waking and the sleeping dreams 
of her unfortunate suitor and, to-day, as he sat resting beneath 
his vine, he thought of her. 



No visitor ever came to see 
Ser Federigo now. Those who 
had found it so easy to lift the 
heavy brass knocker of his 
palace door did not try to raise 
the wooden latch of the cottage 
on the hillside. In his loneliness 

Ser Federigo had but one companion. It 
was his falcon, who, alone of all the friends 
of other days, remained faithful. The bird 
was a fine one and not only helped to furnish 
the table of his master but was a source of 
pride and pleasure. When Ser Federigo 
talked to the falcon, as he often did, it 
seemed to understand every word that he 
said, and he bestowed on the intelligent 
creature the love that his nature obliged 
him to give some one. 

Hunting with a hawk or a falcon used to 
be a favorite sport with kings, nobles and 
ladies. A falcon is carried on the wrist with its head hooded 



THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


167 


until it is time to let it fly. Then it soars above its game 
and, descending swiftly, strikes it with its legs and talons. 
In Ser Federigo ’s day falconry was at its height and his 
bird was the best one in all the land. Its master could 
have sold it for a goodly sum, but he thought that nothing 
would induce him to part with it, so dear he held it. 

On this summer morning, as always, his falcon was near Ser 
Federigo. The bird had his dreams as well as the master. 
As he slumbered on his perch he had visions of the chase, of 
headlong swoops through the air, and of his past triumphs. 
Then, suddenly starting wide awake, he tinkled his bells as 
though to say, “ Ser Federigo, shall we hunt to-day?” 

But Ser Federigo had no thought of hunting just then. He 
was thinking of Monna Giovanna, and he saw her face just as 
plainly as though she were before him. But stay! Was it her 
face? 

In the shadow of the trelises and the vines stood a lovely 
child like her and yet not like. With dark eyes and flowing 
hair the boy was as beautiful as a girl, but he was manly for all 
that, and he came bravely up the walk, looking not at Ser 
Federigo, but at the falcon. 

Then he spoke, and his voice was like Monna Giovanna ’s. 

“ Beautiful falcon,” said the child, “ I wish that I might hold 
you on my wrist or see you fly!” 

Ser Federigo trembled. The sweet voice made his brain 
throb with memories of distant days. The boy was close be- 
side him now, and the man gently laid his hand on the soft curls 
that clustered about his forehead. 

“Who is your mother, my boy?” he asked, and when the 
answer came it did not surprise him. 


16S 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


“Monna Giovanna,” replied the child. “Will you let me 
stay here a little while and play with your falcon? We live 
over there just beyond your garden wall. The great house is 
behind those tall poplar trees. ’ ’ 

Of course Ser Federigo let him stay. He felt as one in a 
dream as he listened to the softly spoken words which the child 
addressed to the falcon. By and by, he took the little boy 
upon his knees and told him stories of the gallant bird who had 
won his adimration. 

Monna Giovanna ’s husband had died and left her with this 
one child. They had come, with friends, to spend the summer 
in her grand villa half-way up the hill overlooking Florence. 
Although near the city, the place was quiet and secluded. The 
house was surrounded by terraced gardens, in which the widow 
might walk among flowers and fountains and ancient marble 
statues shut off from the world by stately trees. Yet the whole 
valley of the Arno was at her feet. 

The boy enjoyed the long days in the pure country air. He 
ran down the broad stone steps and from terrace to terrace, 
chased by the screaming peacock, whom he liked to tease; 
he climbed the garden trellises for fruit; and gathered innum- 
erable bouquets for his mother. But his chief delight was 
found in watching the flight of a falcon which soared into sight 
beyond the trees that fringed the garden wall. Again and 
again he wondered where the bird came from and who was its 
master. At last came the happy morning when he found both 
the master and the falcon in front of the little cottage. 

When he went home the child could scarcely bear to leave 
the falcon. He promised to come back soon, but he did not 
return. Ser Federigo thought that he had forgotten both him 
and the bird, but he did not know. 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


169 


In the great house the boy lay ill. Day by day, he grew 
worse, and the doctors could do nothing to make him better. 
His mother's heart was filled with dread. She felt her darling 
could not get well. She longed to do something to please him 
but he seemed to take no interest in anything. 

“What can I do to comfort you?” she asked many times. 
But the child was silent. 

“ Is there nothing that I can do? ” she urged one day. 

“GivemeSer Federigo 's falcon £cr my own,” answered the 
boy imploringly. 

It was his only request. 

The astonished mother was at, loss for an answer. She was 
willing to do anything in her power for her son, but how could 
she ask such a favor of her luckless lover when she knew that 
for her to ask a service of him was the same as for her to com- 
mand it. At least, it had been that way in the old days, and 
Ser Federigo was not one to change. Besides, as all falconers 
knew, Ser Federigo 's falcon was the best in the land and it was 
his pride, his passion and his delight, and he had said that he 
would not part with it for any price. 

But her child was longing for the bird and he was very ill, 
perhaps dying. Monna Giovanna looked at his flushed face 
and his eager eyes and promised. With her a promise was 
sacred. 

The next morning was bright and beautiful with the splendor 
that September brings. The air was fresh and sweet and the 
gardens were flooded with dazzling sunlight which in the woods 
penetrated every crevice left open by the leaves. 

Through sunshine and shade walked^ two lovely ladies. 
One was Monna Giovanna, intent on her errand to Ser Fed- 
erigo, and the other her bosom friend. Monna Giovanna's 


170 


THELFALCON of ser federigo. 



THROUGH THE SUNSHINE AND SHADE WALKED TWO LOVELY LADIES 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


171 


dark eyes were full of sadness and her hair was covered by a 
close-fitting hood, but she was no less beautiful than her golden 
haired and blue-eyed companion whose heart had as yet 
known no sorrow of its own. Like the sunshine and the shade 
each seemed the lovelier because of the other’s presence. 

They found Ser Federigo at work in the garden. When 
he looked up and saw Monna Giovanna he felt as though an 
angel had come to visit him. 

“Ser Federigo,” said the lady, “we have come here hoping 
to make some amends for past unkindness. I, who in happier 
days refused your banquets and disdained your gifts, come this 
morning to put your generous nature to the test. Self-invited 
guests, we will breakfast with you under your own vine.” 

“ Do not call it your unkindness that kept you from crossing 
my threshold, ” answered Ser Federigo, “but rather call it my 
small worth, for, if there is any good in me, it comes from you, 
and this visit to-day out- weighs all the sorrows of other days. ” 

Poor Ser Federigo was so happy at seeing Mona Giovanna in 
his garden that it seemed to him that nothing better than her 
visit could befall him, so his speeches were heart-felt. After 
a little more talk he left his guests and turned to his cottage in 
search of refreshment for them. As he entered the humble 
place he longed for the splendors of the days of old in order 
that he might entertain the ladies fittingly. As he thought 
of the crystal and silver and gold that he had once had and 
looked at the simple dishes which took their place he felt the 
sting of his poverty as he had never felt it before. 

He summoned the little maid who attended to his house- 
hold affairs. She came, but came in vain. 

“The Signor did not hunt today. There is no meat,” she 
said. “ There is nothing in the house but bread and wine.P 


172 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


Suddenly the falcon shook his bells. He seemed to say, “ If 
anything is wanted, I am here!” 

“ Yes, everything is wanted, my gallant bird, ” answered Ser 
Federigo, and in his despair he sacrificed the falcon. Nothing 
was too good for Monna Giovanna. 

The table was spread with a snow-white cloth and decked 
with autumnal flowers. Surely, the fresh bread, the juicy 
peaches, the purple grapes and the sparkling wine would have 
been a dainty enough breakfast without the falcon, stuffed 
with cloves and spice. 

When all was ready the courtly lady and her lovely com- 
panion entered the cottage . Ser Federigo felt as though under 
the enchantment of a magic spell. The little room no longer 
seemed to him mean and low; it was a sumptuous banquet- 
hall. The rustic chair on which Monna Giovanna sat became 
a throne in his eyes, and the food which they ate had a celestial 
flavor. He, who had never expected to be happy again, tasted 
pure bliss. 

The meal ended, they went into the garden again. 

“ I know only too well how surprised you are to see me here, ” 
said Monna Giovanna, remembering how badly she had treated 
the man of whom she was going to ask a great favor, you do 
not show it, but you are wondering why I have come. You 
have no children and you cannot guess what unspeakable 
anguish a mother feels when her only child is lying ill. Such 
distress is mine ; for my little son is at the point of death. He 
longs for but one thing, and for his sake, you see me lay aside 
all womanly pride and reserve and ask the thing most precious 
to you. He wants your falcon— your only comfort and delight; 
if you can find it in your heart to give it to him my poor un- 
happy boy may live.” 


THE FALCON OF SER FEDERIGO. 


173 


It was too late. 

As he listened Ser Federigo ’s eyes filled with tears of pity and 
love. 

“Dear lady,” he replied, “Nothing is so sweet to me as 
giving when you ask. If I had but known this wish of yours, 
one hour ago, it would have been my own. But in thinking in 
what manner I could best honor my guest I felt that nothing 
could be more worthy to offer than that which I valued most, 
and so my gallant falcon furnished our repast this morning. ” 

Monna Giovanna’s eyes fell. She was grieved and dismayed, 
and yet in her heart she felt proud that he could deny her 
nothing. It was still as it had been in the old days. 

Sadly the ladies took their leave. 

Three days later Ser Federigo heard the chapel bell slowly 
tollmen strokes and he knew that the little boy was dead. 

At Christmas time a merrier chime rang from the chapel 
bells. The cottage was deserted. In the grand villa, half-way 
up the hill, sat Ser Federigo and his beloved bride, Monna 
Giovanna. Never had the lady appeared more beautiful or 
more kind than at the Christmas feast. She sat, as she had 
done in Ser Federigo ’s cottage, in the old rustic chair, but 
now, perched high upon its back, stood a falcon carved in wood. 
Underneath the bird were the words: 

“All things come round to him who will but wait.” 

Ser Federigo knew that he owed his happiness to his falcon. 





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